oscar has his hands full, being in a relationship with you and lando.
note: i'm so landoscar pilled lately
warnings : swearing, implied/referenced sex
fc: beabadoobee
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ynpriv just posted
liked by ln4priv and others
ynpriv: $200 for the little gay one
view all comments:
oscaaaah: Baby why are you trying to sell us
⤷ynpriv: need tha money
⤷ln4priv: We are millionaires?
ln4priv: Second pic is wildly accurate
⤷ynpriv: idk how he deals with us
⤷oscaaaah: Its really hard work
albono23: would you do $100 for the little gay one
⤷ln4priv: Alex you cant buy me
⤷ynpriv: stop trying to lowball me albono. i know his worth!
ynpriv just posted
liked by ln4priv, oscaaaah, and others
ynpriv: my favorite pov
view all comments:
ln4priv: Wait who is who?
⤷ynpriv: well oscar has brown eyes and i just refilled my lexapro prescription so come to your own conclusions
⤷oscaaah: As if that should even be a question lol
albono23: did they finally let you adopt a cat
⤷ynpriv: i make my own decisions!
⤷ln4priv: Yes we did
lilympriv: i’m omw over to pet that baby
oscaaaah: That’s my favorite pov too.
⤷ynpriv: you dog
featuring oscar piastri , popstar!reader , secret relationship .
author’s note hiiiiii so i just realized that monday was the one year anniversary of this blog !! what da hale... time flies . thank you soooooooo much for reading my stuff, i feel so grateful and literally have so much fun writing for yall !! this is just something silly to tide you over while i work on other pieces ... as a longtime stan twt lurker i had fun including some of my fav references . also who else can’t wait for OR3 . i wasn’t on tumblr for guts so i need yall to know now that i do NAWT play about my daughter olivia !! also ALSO dropped some deep oscar lore in this very briefly for the OG piastriprincesses . anyway i hope you like this and as always let me know what you think or just come chat to me !! title is obviously from drop dead by olivia rodrigo .
ynln • 6m ago
🎵 Just Like Heaven - The Cure
ynln i hope you never finish that beer
liked by oscarpiastri, audreyhobert and 2,584,370 others
conangray you’re glowing mama ♥ liked by author
⤷ ynln LOVE YOUUUU
flyereduppppp this is sooooo lovergirl of her… whats going on
allamericanyn actually unfair that she’s hot AND cool AND a grammy winner like okay save something for the rest of us
lac.yn glad you’re enjoying your vacation queen but my boyfriend just broke up with me so let’s get back in the studio !!
⤷ taydaughter um did you see the third pic bae i don’t think she’s got anything for you
tokyotonistrucking ummm third slide WHO DAT IN THE BAAAAACK
lizzymcalpine gorgeous gorgeous girl ♥ liked by author
oscsnoopy oscar in the likes AGAIN i said oh i'm sure
⤷ piastriluvr he’s such a ynnie lmaoooo
⤷ buzzing.pop who is oscar
⤷ oscsnoopy oscar piastri? formula one driver? famously obsessed with yn, he’s mentioned her as his celebrity crush in like every interview ever
⤷ piastriluvr dont put our boy on the jumbotron like this LMAOOO we cant let his loserness about yn breach containment!!
⤷ buzzing.pop wait why he kinda —
ynfan42069 this soft launch NOOOOO i need more sad songs :(
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⸻ replies to ynln's instagram story !
letsgolesbians • 30s
omg is the caption a song lyric??
gracieabrams • 2m
You and Oscar are so cuteeeee 🥹 Let’s do a double date soon or something! ♥ liked by user
yns.traitor • 6m
who is he
who is he
who is he
who is he
who is he
deuxmoi • 15m
THE SOFT LAUNCH IS SOFT LAUNCHING…
oscarpiastri • 25m
Can you send this one to me?
Your shadow looks so pretty and I want it as my lockscreen ♥ liked by user
⸻ replies to oscarpiastri's instagram story !
ynln • 2m
oh my god this lighting ?? you literally look like an angel
my boy is so hottttttt ♥ liked by user
oscarcito481 • 3m
the way the song isn’t even related… oscar piastri you are so devoted to your crush it’s unbelievable i sincerely hope you meet her while she’s in monaco
logansargeant • 8m
Bro 😭😭😭 You know you already got her right
lando • 15m
absolutely shameless mate lmfao
can u tell her i want tickets to her show tho pleas 😄
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yndaily • 24m ago
yndaily yn in monaco AGAIN today! fans saw her this morning grabbing a coffee, and she later posted a story of herself playing tennis. a bit surprising given she was just spotted in london earlier this week outside sarm studios, fueling rumors a new album is on the way. glad our girl is enjoying some rest and relaxation but what do we think ynnies? is YN3 coming?
liked by ynnieshq, hattiepiastri, and 36,582 others
prissytomboyrecords playing tennis… babe that was another soft launch it’s okay we can be honest
⤷ jesuswasacarpenter it’s so obviously PR for an album rollout, like those cryptic ass captions are definitely lyrics she's so transparent
h0pium oscar posting a thirst trap story using her song immediately after she was spotted in monaco… he is suchhhh a loser i love him
yn.world Of course I want new music but this break is obviously good for her, she’s looked so healthy and happy recently! ♥ liked by author
popculturechat she’s been in monaco so much omg do we think her man lives there
⤷ ilyarozanovofficial that’s like basically confirmed at this point right
⤷ princessyn YOUR MIND oh my god. and her playing tennis today too!! could it be carlitosalcarazz maybe?????
⤷ gamesetmatch tagging him is insane but EEEEEK they’d be sooo cute together… my new agenda !!
⤷ richbich hate to burst the bubble but i think she was playing padel actually
⤷ princessyn wait you’re so right. maybe an f1 driver then? i think lando’s single?
⤷ f1.gossip LANDOYN WOULD BE SOOOOO BUZZY
⤷ forzafemme or hear me out… she’s working on a track for the new album with charles??
amishwillbyers can we please give her privacy jesus christ like maybe she’s in monaco bc no one’s supposed to be able to take pictures of her there
impradaurnada she’s gorgeous oh my days
piastr81 a certain superfan f1 driver just fell to his knees seeing this post
⤷ everythingyn i know he was running around monaco fanboying out trying to find her
⤷ oscarpiastriwdc hold awn… walk with me here... what if the soft launch is oscar...
⤷ spillurguts bffr as if he could act normal around her long enough to carry on a conversation much less start a relationship
⤷ oscarpiastriwdc ykw im living in my oscyn truth... ur all gonna see #DELUSIONISTHESOLUTION
ynnieshq 🤫🤫🤫 ♥ liked by author
⤷ yndaily oh my god admin WHAT DO YOU KNOW?????
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⸻ replies to ynln’s instagram story !
oscarpiastri • 30s
Oh so you CAN be romantic. Noted
Love you, so proud of you sweetheart ♥ liked by user
f1.gossip • 2m
THE CAR IN THE COLLAGE OMG I KNEW IT WAS LANDOOOOOO
gethimback.com • 6m
GIRL IM AT WORK HOW DO YOU EXPECT ME TO FUNCTION AFTER THIS ?!?!?!?!?!?!
taylorswift • 15m
The way this made me cry and I’ve already heard the song five times 🥹 Can’t believe it’s out in the world already! So happy for you ♥ liked by user
ynradio • 25m
STREAMING ON MY SAMSUNG SMART FRIDGE RN IM GETTING YOU THAT BILLBOARD NUMBER ONE ON GOD YN
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ynnieshq • 35m ago
🎵 drop dead - YN LN
ynnieshq hey did you see the LOVE note from yn? her new single “drop dead” is yours now 🫧🩷 stream on all platforms and stay tuned for more surprises coming soon!
liked by ynln, oscarpiastri, and 1,987,194 others
obsessedwithurex all her captions recently are making soooo much more sense now lol
poopcrave need the analysts to do a deep dive on this IMMEDIATELY
⤷ americanteenager no like i need a behind the lyrics video raynowwwww
⤷ poopcrave baby no shade but im talkin bout the man…
numberoneynnie might get cancelled for saying this but this song sounds like it’s been copied from somewhere? the beats, the melody, it all sounds so familiar. i just can’t pinpoint exactly where i’ve heard it? oh wait… i’ve figured it out… it sounds like THE SONG OF THE SUMMER ♥ liked by author
ynified.xx most alive i’ve ever been but kiss me and i might drop dead? oh she’s down BADDDDDD
⤷ marybethbarone No for real WHO is this man because I’ve never heard her sound so in love 🥹
⤷ rachelberryofficial clearly if she wanted us to know she’d just say it!!! let’s give her space!!!
⤷ marybethbarone Okay but, alternatively, consider: I am nosey.
maisiepeters YN3 IS COMING YESSSSS ♥ liked by author
vivaciousskin.com Slide 2 has to be a screencap from the music video right?
⤷ ynnieshq 👀👀👀
⤷ ynluvr51 ADMIN STOP BEING CRYPTIC WE’RE NOT SWIFTIES…
left4rat sour to guts to LOVE now that’s what i call a holy trinity ♥ liked by author
emptychairdoasolo second slide jfc she’s so fineeeee… whoever her man is i hope he can fight
⤷ opiastrix2 Dw I can
⤷ brutallyn bro thinks he’s on the team 🫵🤣🫵🤣 who invited my man blud
ynluvbot stream drop dead for a free drink at starbucks!! 🌷🫧🩷
⤷ starbuckscoffee This is not a valid Starbucks offer, and this comment is fake. To confirm any Starbucks promotion, you can check your Starbucks app, reach out to our customer care line, or ask your Starbucks barista.
⤷ ynluvbot did i ask? mind your own business
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ynln • 35m ago
🎵 drop dead - YN LN
ynln thank you for all the LOVE on drop dead 🫧🩷 i wrote this song on the floor of my apartment after the best night of my life. i was shaking and laughing and it felt like i couldn’t get the words out quick enough. i’ve never written anything so fast or so honest and turns out it’s my favorite thing i’ve ever made. should’ve expected it because it’s about my favorite person! thank you for listening and i’m so happy you LOVE it as much as i do
ps: pretty boy is pretty happy about it too xx
liked by oscarpiastri, sabrinacarpenter, and 1,992,501 others
gossipgirl white boy with a cute smile WRITE THAT DOWN WRITE THAT DOWN
dan_nigro Wowwww I wonder what the album title could possibly be ♥ liked by author
⤷ ynln it’s a mystery!
thankunext327 third slide ohhhh okay i’m gonna go lie in traffic now
⤷ iluvyn Wait til LOVE drops please we can’t lose sales
thesearemyconfessions curly hair theory 🥹 she’s so in loveeeeee
ynssour im already missing the purple eras but the pink is so cute on her too
costarastrology Fun fact: Aries and Gemini are two of the most compatible star signs! You really will go nice together ♥ liked by author
shnnetwork Okay does anyone else think this pic is so inappropriate. Like she does not need to be showing them kissing. You guys are disgusting and weird for defending a literal weirdo
⤷ dropdead.diva i’m 17 and AFRAID of yn ln
lasculturistas ynnies let’s mobilize we need to figure out who this man is, we have half his face and his star sign!!!
oscarpiastri Congratulations ♥ liked by author
⤷ boxboxbaby LMAOOOOOOOOOO posted this with tears in his eyes
⤷ landowecanbewdc no bc the way he commented the exact same thing w the exact same energy on lando’s post when he lost the wdc like this is really that level of serious for him
⤷ scuderiayn did you like the song though oscarpiastri
⤷ 81sweetheart TAGGING HIM UNPROVOKED ???
audreyhobert Tewwww cute ♥ liked by author
⤷ ynln love yewwwwww xx
oscarpiastriwdc i know y’all are gonna clown me again but… 3rd pic… i’d recognize that meepful smile anywhere…
⤷ sharleclerc baby he can’t even get a reply back
⤷ oscarpiastriwdc but he got a like this time! alexa play baby steps by olivia dean
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REDDIT: TOP POSTS TODAY
r/popculturechat • crossposted to r/ynln and r/popheads • 6h ago
posted by u/ynspilledmyguts
who is drop dead about? let’s discuss 👀
first of all GO STREAM DROP DEAD! so proud of our girl yn, it’s her biggest debut ever and such a beautiful song 🫧🩷
but let’s get to the elephant in the room: we have no idea who it’s about!!!!! not to be parasocial but i’m kinda obsessed with figuring it out so i’m compiling all the clues we have so far. i need the internet sleuths to play detective with me because i haven’t been able to narrow it down enough and it’s driving me crazy
what we know so far:
from the lyrics of the song: he’s an aries, he likes the cure (or at least just like heaven), he’s “so so pretty”, she stalked him online before they met (which means he is famous and would have to have been single at least after march 2025 when she and the evil ex broke up)
from context: she’s been in monaco a lottttt recently but was also recording in london, she posted a story playing tennis/padel with him, she’s been soft launching for a few weeks now but they’ve clearly been dating for a bit
i listened to the deux/u podcast this week but it only got me more confused because they’re suggesting it’s an athlete and i just don’t see her with a jock. YNNIES HELP ME!
⬆ 81.4K ⬇ • 🗨 534 • ➦ SHARE
TOP COMMENTS
u/YNNATION • 3h ago
“not to be parasocial” babe that’s kinda what this subreddit is for ⬆ 3.4K ⬇
u/grandchelem • 1h ago
i really think it’s an f1 driver. they basically all live in monaco, and does anyone remember when she randomly canceled a show during guts world tour last summer and then people spotted her in the airport flying to ZANDVOORT of all places ⬆ 1.7K ⬇
⤷ u/everythingyn • 35m ago OK I just looked it up and the only two Aries drivers on the F1 grid are Alex Albon and Oscar Piastri? Oscar kinda seems more like her type out of the two of them ⬆ 81 ⬇
⤷ u/ln4norris • 26m ago oscar get off your burner account buddy ⬆ 4.8K ⬇
⤷ u/pitstoppiastri • 8m ago LMAOOO i love oscar but be so fr rn ⬆ 2.1K ⬇
u/neverendingmidnightsun • 48m ago
Unpopular opinion but I think it might genuinely be someone non-famous. “Stalked you on the internet” could just mean she found his Instagram. Not everything has to be a celebrity! Sometimes the answer is boring! ⬆ 2.5K ⬇
⤷ u/fauxmoi • 9m ago the answer CANNOT be boring i refuse to accept that ⬆ 332 ⬇
u/monacoinsider • 39m ago
wait lowkey the deuxmoi podcast was soooo inaccurate like they did NAWT do their research at all. half of the guys they talked about aren’t even aries, alex albon is literally engaged, and oscar piastri is too busy being yn’s reply guy to pull her ⬆ 992 ⬇
⤷ u/sinnerista • 11m ago thank god you said this bc i listened and i’ve been rebuking the zv*r*v allegations all day ⬆ 597 ⬇
⤷ u/friedandprejudice • 2m ago my money’s on berrettini but honestly it could be someone who doesn’t live in monaco? maybe they were just vacationing there or something ⬆ 133 ⬇
u/fromthediningtable • 2h ago
genuine question but does it matter who it is? she’s clearly happy, she wrote the most joyful song of her career n whoever he is, he’s obviously good for her. respectfully maybe we should just let her have this one n let her tell us when she’s ready ⬆ 689 ⬇
⤷ u/ynspilledmyguts • 35m ago this is such a beautiful sentiment bae but i will not rest until i know who he is 🫶 ⬆ 731 ⬇
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oscarpiastri • 22m ago
🎵 drop dead - YN LN
oscarpiastri Think we might go really nice together
liked by ynln, lando and 1,584,370 others
ynln LMAOOOO you’re insane
ynln saw the vision didn’t you. i love you baby xx ♥ liked by author
⤷ oscarpiastri Love you more :)
oscmega OH MY GOD???? OSCAR PIASTRI I WAS UNFAMILIAR WITH YOUR GAME MY GOAT
oscarpiastriwdc oscyn truthers WE WONNNNNNNN
⤷ spillurguts issuing my formal apology to you now queen
xopiastri third pic oh ik you two are freaked out.
oskuromi mclaren hate train, down bad allegations, ynnies and oscarinas all calling him rizzless… he had one chance and he locked the fuck INNNNNN
popculturechat when ynnieshq said more surprises coming soon ain’t no way this is what they meant 😭
⤷ ynnieshq i can’t control either of them tbh i’m just along for the ride
⤷ vivacioushairandlashes admin: who drivin this bus…
ynpilled wait he’s kinda cute AND he has a job yayyyy i love him already
piastriszn no bc his manifestation rituals must go so crazy like how does he keep pulling his favs!!! first lando then jannik then this!!!! ♥ liked by author
⤷ lando now why am i in it :0
good4u Uhhhh the leopard jumpsuit??? Are you saying they’ve been together since MILAN??? That show was like 8 months ago
logansargeant Thank god the lying was getting exhausting ♥ liked by author
piastriarchive the way we’ve been clowning oscar for years but yn was in the likes in seconds and was the first comment… like she’s just as down bad for him
⤷ ynln yeah :)
⤷ piastriarchive girl you weren’t even tagged 😭😭😭 GET UP!!!
⤷ ynln pretty happy right where i am actually ♥ liked by author
pairing: lando norris x fem!reader (no y/n, established rel.)
warnings: minors dni, p in v, lando being annoying and giving you the ick in 3k words
wc: 3k
summary: it’s off season, and you decide lando needs to get out of mônaco and into nature... i present to you baby’s first camping trip
ale's note: thank you @kaizachas for this idea!!!
a bit more dialogue heavy than usual but just trying smth a bit dif, i hope u likeee
you'd booked the campsite two weeks ago. he’d looked at the confirmation email over your shoulder and said camping? like, outside? in a tone of genuine uncertainty that had made you laugh.
"when did you last sleep outside?" you asked, genuinely curious.
"define outside."
"tent. sleeping bag. y’know, bushes."
he thought about it for longer than was reasonable. "a festival, maybe? 5 years ago? but there was a hotel option and i—"
"you took the hotel option."
"there was a hotel option," he repeated, like this was a defence.
꩜
the campsite was in the peaks, down a b road that turned into a track that lando had side eyed for the last stretch of it. you’d been here every holiday as a kid, and the smell of cold air and pine hit you when you got out of the car, reminding you of your childhood.
lando got out and stepped directly into mud. he looked down at his trainers. some limited edition ones, you were fairly sure. the kind he kept in the box.
you waited.
"fine," he said, to himself, and grabbed a bag from the boot.
you’d been with him long enough to know that was good, actually. he was like that. annoying about things that hadn't happned yet, easy about things that already had. it was one of the things you liked about him, even though you'd never tell him because his ego didn't need it.
"help me with the tent," you said.
"i know how to put up a tent."
you squinted at him.
"i could know how to put up a tent," he revised. "how hard is it?"
it took 40 minutes, which was 35 more than it should have taken, but that was with lando’s help. he was genuinely trying, the poor thing, but he’d still managed to get the poles into a configuration that physics could not account for. he stepped back and looked at it with his hands on his hips.
"somethings not right," he said.
"no."
"but I followed—"
"give me the poles," you demanded, holding your hand out, and he passed them over without much argument because he was genuinely confused rather than defensive about it. you fixed it in about two minutes. he held the torch and passed you pegs when you pointed at them and when the tent was standing, correctly, he looked at it happily.
"good," he clapped.
"you held the torch really well."
"i helped in other ways too, don't reduce it to the torch."
"name one other way."
he picked up his bag. "i’m getting the sleeping bags."
"of course you are," you said, to his back.
꩜
the fishing thing was your fault, genuinely, and you'd known it was going to backfire even when you were saying it.
you’d told him a week before the trip. he had been in the kitchen eating toast and you'd said, very casually, that camping obviously meant catching your own dinner, and lando had put his toast down and said catching it from where in this careful voice, like he was hoping he'd misheard you, and you'd said the lake, babe, and watched his face collapse.
"fish," he said.
"fish."
"you want me to catch a fish and then eat it."
"that’s generally what catching dinner means, yeah."
he looked at you for a long moment. then he picked his toast back up and put it down again without taking a bite, like he'd lost the ability to eat with this new information. "i hate fish," he huffed. "you know i hate fish."
"it’s camping. you catch what you catch."
"we could catch something else."
"like what."
"i don't know. a rabbit."
"you’re not catching a rabbit."
"why not."
"because you're not going to catch a rabbit, lando."
he’d texted you three times that evening when he was supposed to be doing simwork at the mtc. first: genuinely asking if there's a way to do the camping thing without the fish part. then, ten minutes later: what if we just brought food. then, at half eleven: please we can even just buy fish and cook it, i don’t want to catch them!!! hello?!
and then there were the waterproof trousers, express delivered to the apartment. apparently he had prepared to wade into a lake and catch his own dinner before he'd eat it. he’d mentioned them so casually, like it was just an obvious step, and you had held it together for another 20 minutes in the car before you cracked and told him you were joking and that you'd brought pasta in a tupperware and a camping stove and there had never been any fish.
he’d gone quiet. then he petulantly looked down at the trousers he was wearing.
"they look nice though," you patted his thigh.
"that’s not the point."
"what is the point?"
"i was gonna wade in there and catch something i don't even like and eat it," he said. "for you. that’s was where i was."
"that’s very romantic actually."
he whipped his head to you and frowned. "i can see you trying not to laugh. don’t laugh. it’s not funny."
"it is a little funny."
"it is a little funny," he’d repeated, voice pitched high to mockingly match yours, but he’d looked back out the window, and you saw his jaw move in a way that meant he was trying not to smile about it.
꩜
dinner was actually nice. you hadn't been sure—there was a version of this where lando was quietly miserable the whole time and too polite to say so, but he'd been given the job of keeping the fire alive because you needed him occupied, and he'd taken it very seriously, feeding it increasing sizes of kindling, and by the time you were eating he looked like a man who was very proud of himself.
"better than i thought," he said, onto his second bowl of pasta. "i had low expectations."
the way he looked at you made your cheeks heat and you felt the same giddiness you felt when you first met him. you didn’t know what to do with it. you kicked his shins instead. he grinned and went back to eating.
the sky had gone that deep black that only happened out here, away from everything, dotted with thousands of stars. lando kept glancing up at them between bites.
"you never see this in monaco," he said.
"light pollution."
"too many lights, yeah." he looked up for a long moment. "it’s mad, isn't it. this is just what it looks like everywhere and we just can't see it."
you’d learned early on that there were two landos. the one everyone saw—the energy, the jokes, constantly funny, loud. and then this one, quieter, that he only really let be seen when there was nowhere he needed to be and no one he needed to be anything for. you’d fallen for both of them, but the second one had properly finished you off.
"this is why i wanted to come," you said.
you leaned down and kissed the top of his head, before he grabbed your wrist and pulled you down into his lap, wrapping both arms around you from behind, chin on your shoulder.
“love you,” he whispered.
you’d normally tease him for being such a sap but for some odd reason, it honestly made you want to cry.
꩜
the tent was small. you knew this, you'd slept in it a hundred times, but that was always alone or with your sister when you were twelve, not with lando, who was not twelve and not small. side by side in the sleeping bags there was maybe four inches of unused space. you had bullied lando because he had bought some fancy sleeping bag to apparently prevent hypothermia and leaches or whatever other bullshit he’d read about when you told him he was going camping, but you were honestly freezing so you made him shuffle a bit so you could slip into his bag too. his arm snaked around your lower back.
"this is actually cosy," he said.
"you’re such a liar," you said. "you were going to say cramped."
"i was going to say cosy and a bit cramped."
the torch went off. it was silent, except for the occasional thing moving in the trees which was fine and normal but lando had asked what's that the first three times until you'd explained the concept of nocturnal animals and he'd gone quiet in a way that wasn't entirely settled.
another rustle, significantly closer to your tent. lando made a small sound into your hair.
"hedgehog," you said.
"i didn't say anything."
"you made a noise."
he grunted. "could be anything, that's the thing," he said. "could be loads of things. you can't see anything."
"that’s because it's night."
"in monaco you can always see something."
you turned your head toward him in the dark. "are you scared of the dark?"
"no."
"lando."
"i’m not scared of the dark, i just prefer when there's some light, that's a completely normal preference shared by most humans."
you were finding this completely endearing, which was probably a problem.
another rustle. louder this time. he tightened his grip on you, moving you so you ended up with your head on his chest, which was warm and solid and smelled like the woodsmoke from the fire.
“probably a bear, that.” you lied, relishing in the way you could hear his heartbeat quicken.
"i’m not scared," he repeated.
"you keep going tense when it makes a noise."
"i’m alert," he said. "that’s… that's situational awareness."
"lando."
"what."
"it’s fine if you're scared."
the tent shook a bit and you felt him go rigid next to you for approximately one second before he caught himself. you pressed your lips together very hard.
his voice was slightly higher this time. "i'm just. it's very dark."
"it'll be okay," you said, and you meant it gently, and mostly managed it, except your voice wobbled a bit at the end that gave you away.
“i know it’ll be ok. i’m not a child. i'm just making an observation about the darkness."
"okay."
"it's very dark."
"you’ve said."
"just noting it."
꩜
lando lasted about twenty minutes before his hand, which had started at a perfectly reasonable location on your waist, began to migrate.
you caught it. put it back.
two minutes later, migrating again.
"norris," you grunt sleepily.
"i’m cold."
"your hand is warm, actually."
"the other parts of me are cold."
"let me guess, your dick."
there was a pause. “no.”
“go to sleep.”
he made a sound that was awfully close to a whine, but you weren’t going to call him out on that. his hand stayed where you'd put it for another few minutes and then began moving down to cup your ass. you could feel his cock pressing against your back, slowly thickening.
"i can feel that."
"feel what?" he said, innocent.
you lifted your head to look at him, pointless in the dark but you still glared. "it’s cold so you're putting it on my ass."
"i'm scared," he declared.
"you just said you weren't."
"i changed my mind. i need comfort." he squeezed for emphasis and you made a sound that you had not fully intended to make and felt him go very still.
then, quietly: "yeah?"
you didn't say anything for a second. the dark, the tent, his hand, his heartbeat under your cheek. the sounds outside were completely irrelevant.
lando kissed you slow and you let him, and his hands pushed under your thermal. you combed your fingers through his hair and he made a low sound against your mouth and shifted, pulling you properly on top of him. you could already feel his cock throbbing against your clothed cunt and you rocked forward once, deliberate, just to feel him suck in a breath.
you sat up, knees either side of him, and pulled your thermal over your head. cold air hit you for about half a second before his hands blindly scrabbled for your tits in the dark, and he sat up too so he could get his mouth on them. you bit down on a noise and fisted your hands in his hair to keep him there.
"shit," you managed.
he made a sound against your tits that was pure smug. he flattened his tongue over your nipple, then sealed his lips around it and sucked. it made a wet sound that went straight to your cunt and you could feel arousal soaking your panties already.
"lando."
"hm."
"i’m supposed to be comforting you, aren’t i? you're scared, remember."
he huffed a laugh against your neck, sucking a bruise there. "i’m feeling much better, actually. funny how that works."
you pushed him back down by the shoulder and he went, chuckling quietly, and then you got his shirt off and the laughing stopped because you ran your hands down his stomach and felt him go tense under you, and that was one of your favourite things in the world, honestly.
"you’re so easy," you told him.
"you’re so hot, what do you want from me."
you got his pyjama pants and boxers down enough to matter and wrapped a hand around his cock. his head rolled back.
"that’s—" he swallowed. "yeah, that's—"
"good?"
"don’t fish for compliments right now, please, i’m—"
you stopped yourself from making a fishing joke and instead stroked slowly until he stopped forming sentences. he was warm in your hand, pulsing and hard and making these quiet desperate sounds that he always tried to keep down and could never quite manage, and you kept the pace unhurried and felt his hips buck up, trying to move things along.
his hand slid down your stomach and under the waistband of your panties and then his fingers were on your cunt and it was your turn to melt. he parted your folds with two fingers, finding you dripping, and made a quiet pleased sound.
you stroked him faster and he retaliated with his fingers, two pressed inside you while his thumb worked circles over your throbbing clit and you grabbed his shoulder and had to stuff your face to his neck to muffle yourself.
"we’re in a tent in the middle of nowhere," he said, "and you're still trying to be quiet."
"habit," you panted.
"bad habit." he curled his fingers and you tightned your grip on his shoulder, nails digging in.
"god—"
"there we go," lando said, and you could hear him smiling, and normally that would be annoying but right now you couldn't locate the annoyed part of yourself at all. you were wet and worked up and he'd been stoking this for the better part of the last hour without even trying and you were done with the back and forth.
you pulled his hand out, shifted up onto your knees, pulling your joggers and panties off. he went still beneath you, hands settling on your hips as you reached for his cock, lining him up, and sank down onto him slowly.
he made a truly pathetic sound.
you rolled your hips slow, finding the angle, and landos head went back and his grip tightened. his cock hit deep at this angle and you felt it in your stomach, that low pull building, hips grinding. you braced on his chest. he had one hand on your hip and the other had returned back to your clit, thumb working in tight circles. your thighs were starting to burn and the pressure was building to a point where slow wasn't going to cut it.
"lando—"
"yeah." he canted his hips up to meet you and you moaned loud at the pressure of him deep inside you.
“look at you," he said quietly, and there was no smirk in it this time.
you came with your face in his neck, fingers grabbing at his shoulders, hips grinding while he worked you through it. he kept his thumb rubbing you until you grabbed his wrist to make him stop and then his hands moved to your hips.
he waited until you'd stopped trembling.
then he flipped you. one smooth move, your back hit the sleeping bag and he was over you and settled between your thighs in the time it took you to register what had happened. something in you went molten all over again. he pushed back into your pussy and you gasped. the pace was nothing like yours had been—deep and hard, hips snapping forward, sending you scraping your nails down his back.
"fuck—lando—"
"yeah," he groaned, into your throat. "i know, baby."
lando’s mouth was on your neck, your jaw, biting at your collarbone, and you had your nails in his skin and your other hand gripping the sleeping bag. the sounds in the tent were filthy, skin and breath and the obscene squelch of how sloppy your cunt was. he reached between you and got his thumb back on your clit and pressed and kept his pace and you arched up hard into him.
"i can't! I literally just—"
"you can," he coaxed. "come on. for me."
you came a second time harder than the first, clenching tight around his cock, his name broken apart in your throat. he grunted against your neck, his hips stuttering as he buried himself deep and shuddered through it with your name on his lips.
꩜
you were back in the sleeping bag eventually, because you both had somehow wormed your way out of it. lando was on his back and you were using his chest as a pillow, the sleeping bag pulled up because it was cold. you could feel his heartbeat slowing.
"still scared?" you whispered.
"i was never scared."
"lando."
"what."
"you made me check the zip twice for animals."
a pause. "that's just sensible. coudld happen to anyone."
there was brief silence, and his hand was in your hair, combing slow.
"can we come back?" he broke the quiet. "another time."
"you literally complained for the entire drive here."
"that was before." he pressed his mouth to the top of your head. "can we come back."
"yeah," you said. "we can come back."
he was quiet after that. his breathing slowed. outside the hedgehog or whatever it was did its thing in the undergrowth and neither of you mentioned it.
this was a bit rushed so i'm sorry if there are any grammatical or spelling errors
and a little poll cos i wanna know what you guys want me to post next:
pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader (no y/n, bestfriends)
warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI, oral (fem receiving), p in v
wc: 5.5k
summary: You pulled him closer and he came willingly, his weight pressing you back onto the bed. His hand slid up from your hip to your ribs, tentative, testing. You arched into him.
His hand moved higher, cupping your tits, and you both paused. This was new territory. Best friends didn't touch each other like this. But you weren't just best friends anymore, were you?
ale's note: happy belated oscar, i wrote smut!! 👅👅
You figured out you were in love with your best friend on a Tuesday in May, which felt like the wrong day for it. Tuesdays were for admin and meal prep and catching up on things you'd been ignoring. Not for sitting across from Oscar at a kitchen table in his apartment while he frowned at a lease renewal form, realising that you were absolutely fucked.
He'd asked you to come over and look at the paperwork because he didn't trust himself with anything legal. You had come over because you always came over. You'd been making tea in his kitchen when he'd said something about whether renters insurance was mandatory or optional, and you'd leaned out to answer him and he'd been looking at you already. Not saying anything. Just looking.
He did that sometimes. You'd never examined it too closely.
That time it stuck, his warm brown eyes on you and a slight smile on his lips.
You went back to making the tea and said something about how yes, renters insurance was mandatory if he had any sense, and he said something back, and you stood at his kitchen bench and thought: I'm in love with him. Like you were reading something off a piece of paper. Just a fact, sitting there.
Then you took the tea out and sat down and helped him with his lease and went home at nine and did not think about it any further because there was nothing to be done about it and if you poked at it, it would get bigger. You weren’t going to do anything about this. You weren’t going to be the person who makes things weird. What you felt was your problem, it would stay your problem, and in a few weeks it would probably fade into background noise like all the other inconveneint feelings you’d successfully ignored across the course of your adult life.
That was eleven months ago.
꩜
It had not faded into background noise..
If anything it was worse, which you hadn't anticipated and felt kinda cheated by. It turned out that when you're in love with your best friend, spending time with your best friend did not help. Every time he laughed at something you said you felt it somewhere specific and annoying. You’d even started being weird about physical contact. Not pulling away, because that would be noticeable, but hyperaware of it in a way that you couldn’t switch off. His arm around your shoulders. Sitting too close on a couch. The time he fell asleep on a flight and his head ended up against yours and youd spent four hours not moving.
You had been carefully, methodically fine about all of it. As far as you could tell, he had no idea.
This was the correct outcome. You were keeping things normal. You were being a good friend. You were not thinking about him at night. It was fine. It was all completely fine.
꩜
"There's a thing," Oscar said, which was how he announced most things. You were on facetime; he was at the mtc, still in team kit, looking tired. "In Bahrain. Two weeks."
"A thing."
"A gala. Some sponsor thing." He paused. "I have to go."
"Okay."
"I don't want to go alone." Another pause. "You’re coming to the race, right? It would be better if you came."
You looked at him on your screen. He wasn’t quite making eye contact, which meant he was mildly uncomfortable asking, which was about as close as Oscar got to awkward. He didn’t do grand gestures or elaborate invitations. He did it would be better if you came, and somehow that'd always been enough.
"Sure," you said. "I'll come."
"Good. I'll send you the details."
"Very romantic invitation."
He rolled his eyes but his cheeks were pink. “Shut up.”
You smiled at him and said goodbye and closed the laptop.
Then you sat there for a moment.
It would be better if you came.
You pressed your palms against your eyes and breathed out slowly.
Fine. Totally fine.
꩜
"You almost ready?" Oscar's voice came through the hotel bathroom door. "Car's here in fifteen."
"Yeah, almost." You smoothed the fabric one more time, checked your reflection. The dress was abit of a problem.
You'd known it the moment you'd first tried it on, known it when your friend had wolfwhistled and said "Oscar's going to lose his mind", known it when you'd packed it anyway because you were apparently a glutton for punishment.
Deep emerald silk that clung everywhere it touched. A neckline that showed the curve of your tits. A slit that went high enough on your thigh that you'd have to be careful sitting down. It was beautiful. It was also completely inappropriate for going to a gala with your best friend who you were definitely not in love with.
You'd been carwfully not thinking about it. Not thinking about how his eyes crinkled when he smiled at something you said. Not thinking about the way your stomach flipped every time he texted you.
And definitely not thinking about him in any capacity that involved less clothing.
When you opened the door, Oscar was standing there adjusting his cufflinks, and your brain temporarily stopped working.
You'd seen him in a lot of contexts. Drenched in champagne on podiums. Sweaty and exhausted after races. In ridiculous papaya merch. But here was Oscar Piastri in a perfectly fitted suit, bowtie somehow straight despite his usual inability to dress himself, hair actually cooperating for once, and you were horny.
He looked up and went still.
"Hi," you said, immediately feeling stupid.
You watched his eyes move. start at your face, drop to the neckline of the dress, keep going down to where the slit exposed your leg, then back up like he was forcing himself to look at your face again.
"That's—" he stopped. Started again. "Is that new?"
"Bought it for tonight. Is it too much? I can change?"
"No." He said it quickly. "Don't change. You look..." He trailed off, still staring.
"I look...?"
"Really good." He cleared his throat. "You look really good."
There was something in his voice that made your skin feel hot. "You clean up pretty well yourself, Mr Piastri."
"Thanks." He was still looking at you oddly. "We should probably go. Car's waiting."
꩜
The gala was in the hotel ballroom. it was a sponsor event that required team presence, which apparently meant Oscar had to show up in a suit and make small talk. You were there as his plusone, which was normal. You'd been to plenty of these things together.
What wasn't normal was the way Oscar kept looking at you.
In the elevator going down, you caught him staring. At the reception, his eyes kept drifting to the neckline of your dress. During a conversation with a sponsor, his hand landed on your lower back and stayed there, warm through the thin silk, until you had to step away because you couldn't concentrate.
"You okay?" he asked quietly during a lull in conversation.
"Fine. Why?"
"You seem tense."
"I'm not tense." You were extremely tense. "Just... a lot of people."
"Want to get some air?"
You nodded, and he guided you toward the balcony, his hand on your back again. The touch was casual adn friendly, the same way he'd touched you a hundred times before. So why did it feel different now? Why could you feel the heat of his palm through the fabric, feel yourself leaning into it?
Outside, the air was cooler. You could still hear the party through the glass, but it was muffled.
"Better?" Oscar leaned against the railing beside you.
"Yeah." You looked out at the city lights instead of at him. "Thanks."
"That guy was staring at you."
You glanced at him. "What?"
"Earlier. The sponsor guy. During the speech. He kept looking at you." Oscar's voice was flat. "It was annoying."
"You were watching him watch me?"
"I was watching you." He said it simply. "You looked uncomfortable. I was making sure he wasn't going to be a problem."
Something warm curled in your chest. "My hero."
"Shut up." But he was almost smiling. "You want to head back in?"
"Few more minutes?"
"Sure."
You stood there in comfortable silence. Oscar pulled out his phone, scrolling through something, and you tried not to think about how good he looked in that suit. About how his hands looked. About how you wanted…
Nope. Not going there.
"I should probably—" You gestured vaguely toward the ballroom. "Bathroom."
"Ok, I'll be at the bar."
Inside, you headed for the bathroom and tried to get yourself under control. This was your best friend. Your best friend who looked unfairly good in a suit and who'd had his hand on your back all night and who you could not develop feelings for because it would ruin everything.
When you came back out, you spotted Oscar at the bar. There was a tall, gorgeous woman in a red dress talking to him, laughing at something he'd said. She touched his arm.
The jealousy was immediate and visceral.
You'd felt it before, little twinges when Oscar talked about someone he thought was hot or when celebrities at the track flirted with him. But this was different. This was watching someone touch him while you stood there in a dress you'd worn hoping he'd look at you the way he'd looked at you earlier, and knowing you had no right to feel possessive because you were just friends.
You needed to leave before you did something stupid.
꩜
The hotel room was too quiet.
You kicked off your heels, poured yourself some vodka from the minibar, and sat on the bed trying not to think about Oscar. About the woman in the red dress. About how you had no right to be upset.
When you both checked in yesterday, the concierge had smiled and said "we've upgraded you to a suite with adjoining rooms" and you'd started to say "oh we're not…" but Oscar had just said "thanks" and taken the keys. Later, the same concierge had dropped off a bottle of champagne and a small box.
"For the happy couple," she'd said with a wink.
You'd opened the box after she left. Condoms. The hotel had given you condoms because they thought you were a couple.
Oscar had laughed. "Well that's presumptuous."
"Yeah." You'd shoved the box in the nightstand drawer, trying not to think about it. It made something twist in your stomach.
Now, sitting on the bed in your dress, you opened the drawer. The box was still there. Unopened.
You should stop thinking about this. Should get up, change, wash your face, go to sleep. Oscar would be back soon and you'd both laugh about how boring the gala was and everything would be normal.
But you couldn't stop seeing him in that suit. Couldn't stop thinking about how his hand had felt on your back all night, warm through the thin silk. How he'd looked at you when you'd first opened the door, like he was seeing something new.
God, this was so fucked up.
Your BEST friend. The person who knew you better than anyone. Who'd seen you at your worst and stuck around anyway. Who made you laugh until you couldn't breathe and listened to you rant about work and let you steal his hoodies.
This was pathetic. You were jealous of your best friend talking to a woman at a party. You had no claim on him. Just because you'd recently realised you were in love with him didn't mean anything. He still saw you as his friend. Still thought of you as…
Your phone buzzed.
osc: Where'd you go?
You: tired. headed up. you should stay
osc: You ok?
You: fine. have fun
You turned your phone facedown and stared at the ceiling.
The thing was, you'd been managing fine before tonight. You'd been handling the feelings, compartmentalising them, acting normal around him. But seeing him in that suit, having his hand on your back, the way he'd looked at you in this dress…
Your hand drifted to the hem of your dress almost without thought. This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. But you were already sliding your hand higher, over your thigh, and you were already thinking about Oscar's hands. About how they'd looked adjusting his cufflinks. About how they'd felt on your back. About how they might feel—
No. You shouldn't. This was wrong. He was your best friend. You were in a hotel room with connecting doors. He could come back any minute.
Your phone buzzed again.
osc: Coming up. It’s boring without you anyway
Shit.
You had maybe five minutes. You should stop. You should definitely stop.
You pushed your panties aside.
You thought about Oscar in that suit. About his hands, his mouth, that dry humour that always made you laugh. Thought about him looking at you earlier, his eyes travelling down your body like maybe…
Your fingers circled your clit and you bit back a sound.
This was so wrong. This was your best friend. You'd known him for two years, you knew how he took his coffee and his prerace rituals and the face he made when he was trying not to laugh at something stupid. You'd never let yourself think about him like this.
But now you were thinking about pushing him against the door of this hotel room. About his hands in your hair. About him hiking up this dress and—
You pressed harder, breath coming faster.
You imagined pulling at his bow tie, shoving his jacket off. Imagined his hands on you, everywhere, no longer careful and friendly but desperate. Imagined him pushing you onto this bed, spreading your legs.
Your fingers moved faster.
This was so fucked up. He could come through that connecting door at any moment and you were here fantasising about your best friend, getting yourself off to thoughts of him. But you couldn't stop. Couldn't stop imagining his mouth on your neck, his hands gripping your hips, his voice low in your ear saying.. what? What would he say? Would he be sweet? Commanding? Would he take his time?
You were so close already, wound tight from a whole night of wanting him, of his casual touches and the way he'd looked at you. Your other hand came up to your tits, squeezing through the silk of the dress, and you imagined it was his hand, imagined him touching you, wanting you.
You came with your hand over your mouth to muffle the sound, your hips lifting off the bed, his name locked behind your teeth.
For a moment, you just lay there, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling.
Then reality crashed back in.
You'd just masturbated thinking about your best friend. In a hotel room next to his. While he was on his way back up.
You were officially a terrible person.
You sat up, adjusting your dress, trying to calm your breathing. The connecting door opened. You froze.
Oscar stepped through, already pulling at his bow tie, looking at his phone. He didn't see you at first, was saying something about "... honestly, if one more person asks me about the championship I'm going to—"
He looked up. Stopped.
His eyes moved over you—your flushed face, your mussed hair, the dress still bunched slightly around your thighs. His gaze sharpened.
"You okay?" His voice was careful.
"Yeah. Fine." You sounded breathless. "How was the rest?"
"Boring." He was still looking at you oddly. He set his phone down on the desk. "Left right after you did."
"You didn't have to."
"I wanted to." He took a step closer. "You sure you're okay? You look..."
"Tired," you said quickly. "Just tired."
"Right." But he didn't sound convinced. He was looking at you the way he looked at data, like he was trying to figure something out.
The silence stretched. You should say something. Anything. But your brain wasn't working properly and you could still feel your cunt fluttering and you were hyperaware of every detail—his bow tie hanging loose, his shirt slightly untucked, the way he was looking at you.
"You left pretty quickly," he said finally. "At the party. Was it that guy? The one who was staring?"
"No. It wasn't—" You stopped. "I just needed to leave."
"Why?"
Because I was jealous. Because I couldn't watch you talk to that woman. Because I'm in love with you and it's killing me.
"Just tired," you repeated.
He moved closer, sitting on the edge of the bed. Not touching you, but close enough that you could smell his cologne. "You're a shit liar."
"I'm not lying."
"Yes you are. You do this thing…" He gestured vaguely at your face. "I've known you for two years. I can tell."
Damn him and his observation skills.
"Fine. I was feeling weird. About the gala." Not technically a lie.
"Weird how?"
"Just... weird." You couldn't look at him. "Can we drop it?"
"Okay." But he didn't move. Just sat there, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. His hand landed on the bed between you, fingers drumming absently. "You looked good tonight. I mean… I said that already. But you did. Really good."
Your heart was pounding. "Thanks."
"That guy at the bar. The one talking to you earlier. I thought he was going to ask for your number."
"He did."
Oscar's head snapped toward you. "What?"
"When I went to the bathroom. He caught me in the hallway. Asked for my number." You risked a glance at him. His jaw was tight. "I didn't give it to him."
"Why not?"
Because I don't want his stupid number. I want you.
"Wasn't interested," you said.
"Right." He was still looking at you intently. "There was this woman… at the bar."
You made a confused face. "What about her?"
"She gave me her number." He said it flatly.
Something twisted in your chest. "Oh."
"I didn't take it."
"Why not?" The question came out before you could stop it. "She was gorgeous."
"I know." His voice was quiet. "But I wasn't interested."
"Why not?" you asked again.
He looked at you for a long moment. "Because I wanted to come back here. To check on you."
The air felt thick. You couldn't breathe properly.
"Oscar."
"When I walked in just now—" He stopped. "You looked... I don't know. Different. Your face was flushed. And you're," his eyes dropped briefly to your dress, still bunched around your thighs. "You look like—"
He stopped. His eyes were dark.
"Were you—" He swallowed. He didn't finish the sentence.
You couldn't answer. Couldn't say yes, I was touching myself thinking about you, thinking about your hands and your mouth.
"I should go." He stood up abruptly. "I should—yeah. Sorry. I'll—"
"Wait." You grabbed his wrist without thinking.
He looked down at where you were touching him. Then at your face. "I should give you space."
"I don’t want space."
Oscar's voice was careful. "What do you want?"
Everything. You. This. All of it.
But you couldn't say that. Couldn't risk it. So instead you just held his wrist and looked at him and tried to figure out what the hell to say.
"I don't know," you said finally. Honestly.
"Okay." He sat back down slowly. "That's... okay."
You were still holding his wrist. You should let go. Should move away. Should not be sitting here with your dress bunched up and your face flushed and your best friend looking at you like he was not your best friend.
"Can I ask you something?" His voice was quiet.
"Yeah."
"When I walked in,“ he stopped. Tried once more. "Before I came in. Were you—"
"Yes." You couldn't make him say it. "I was."
He exhaled slowly. "Okay."
"I'm sorry—"
"Don't apologise." He looked at where you were holding his wrist. His eyes were black. "Were you thinking about someone?"
This was it. You could lie. Should lie. Say you were thinking about someone from the party, some random person, anyone but him.
"Yes," you whispered.
"Who?"
You couldn't say it. But you also couldn't lie anymore.
You let go of his wrist and looked down at your lap. "I can't—I shouldn't have. It’s gonna ruin everything."
"Hey." His hand came to your chin, tilting your face up. "Who?"
You looked at him. At those brown eyes. At your best friend who you'd known for two years and who was looking at you like he already knew the answer.
"You," you whispered.
He went very still.
"I'm sorry," you continued, the words tumbling out now. "I know that's—we're friends and I shouldn't have but I couldn't stop thinking about you in that and your hands and—" You cut yourself off. "I'm sorry. I'll leave. I'll request a different room. We can forget this happened."
"Stop." His thumb brushed your cheekbone. "Just... stop."
"Oscar—"
"How long?"
"What?"
"How long have you been..." He gestured vaguely. "Thinking about me."
You feel sick. This is it. This is the moment he's going to kick you out, uninvite you from the race, never see you again.
"Eleven months. Maybe longer. I don't know. I tried not to—"
He leaned over and kissed you. His nose bumped yours and he had to adjust the angle and it took a second to figure out the rhythm.
You freeze. What the fuck? But then your brought your hand up to his shirt and his other hand went to your waist and suddenly it didn't matter because it was him. You kissed him back.
You felt him exhale through his nose and settle, and it became something else. Certain. Like most things with Oscar, once he commits, he commits.
When he pulled back he was close enough that you could see him properly despite the dark.
"The condoms," you blurted, then mentally threw yourself off the balcony because fucking great! Now Oscar Piastri knows you want to fuck him! It was probably a pity kiss anyway!
He blinked. "What?"
"The gift box. From the hotel. When they thought we were…"
"Oh." A pause. "Right."
"I was trying not to think about them."
He looked at you. "That's…"
"Incredibly useful now, I know."
He made a sound that was probably the most undignified thing you'd heard from him in awhile. He laid you back against the bed and took his time, which you discoverd you had feelings about, and you watched as he actually got the condom from the box. He paused for exactly one second and looked at the ceiling, which made you laugh, which made him look at you with an expression you’d never seen on him before, fond and exasperated and something warmer. And then he was back and was kissing you again, less tentative this time. He made a sound against your mouth and pulled you closer, his hand sliding from your waist to your hip.
"This okay?" he asked between kisses.
"Yes. Yeah. More than okay."
His hand squeezed your hip through the silk. "This dress. I've been trying not to look at you in this dress all night."
"Yeah?"
He kissed your jaw, your neck. "Couldn't help it. You looked—you look—"
You pulled him closer and he came willingly, his weight pressing you back onto the bed. His hand slid up from your hip to your ribs, tentative, testing. You arched into him.
His hand moved higher, cupping your tits, and you both paused. This was new territory. Best friends didn't touch each other like this. But you weren't just best friends anymore, were you?
He kissed you again, deeper this time, his hand kneading your tits through the silk. You could feel him hard against your thigh and it sent heat through you.
"Show me what you were doing." His hand dropped from your face. "Show me how you touch yourself when you think about me."
Your breath caught. "Oscar—"
"Please." And there was something in his voice, something raw and honest that made your decision easy.
You lay back on the bed, struggling to mantain eye contact as you hiked your dress up further. Slowly pushed your underwear aside. Your hand went between your legs and you touched yourself the way you had been, fingers circling your clit.
Oscar made a sound low in his throat. "Fuck. You're so wet."
"Was thinking about you all night," you admitted, past the point of embarrassment. "In that suit. The way you looked at me."
A smile pulled at Oscar’s lips. "Poor baby," he shook his head. "S’that what got you all worked up?"
"Yeah," you breathed. "Osc—"
He pulled your hand away from your cunt, bringing your fingers to his mouth. Sucked them clean. The sight shot heat straight to your pussy.
"I want to taste you properly." He knelt between your legs, pushing your dress up around your waist, pulling your panties down and off.
His mouth was on your cunt before you knew it. His tongue dragged through your folds, circling your clit, and you couldn't stop the moan that escaped.
His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open as he sucked on your clit. He was methodical about it, paying attention to every sound you made, every time your hips jerked.
"Oscar! Fuck—I'm gonna—"
"Cum on my tongue," he said. "Want to feel it."
You did, your back arching off the bed, thighs clamping around his head as the orgasm rolled through you. He didn't stop, working you through it until you were pushing at his head, oversensitive.
When he pulled back, his chhin was glistening and his chest was heaving.
"C'mere." You reached for him.
He climbed over you, and you could feel how hard he was through his trousers. You reached between you, palming his cock, and he groaned.
"I want—" You didn't know how to finish. Wanted everything but didn't know how to ask.
"What do you want?" His voice was rough. "Tell me."
"Want you."
"You have me." He kissed your neck. "Have had me for months."
"I mean—I want—" You rolled your hips and he groaned.
"Fuck. Okay. Yeah." He pulled back to look at you. His hair was messed up from your fingers and his lips were swollen and he looked perfect. "Are you sure?"
"Are you?"
"I've been sure for months," he said. "I'm just making sure you—"
"I'm sure." You pulled him back down. "Very sure."
He kissed you again, his hand sliding down to the slit in your dress, fingers tracing your thigh. You felt his fingers find the zipper. He pulled it down slowly, and the dress loosened. His hands skimmed over your shoulders, pushing the straps down, and slide it off you.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're so—"
"Your turn."
He shrugged his dinner jacket and shirt off. You'd seen him shirtless before but this was different. This was your hands on his chest, feeling the muscle, the warmth of his skin.
His hands went to his belt and you helped, both of you fumbling slightly until he stepped out of his trousers and you were both naked.
"Hi," you said stupidly.
"Hi." He was smiling slightly. "This is weird, isn't t?"
"So weird."
"Good weird?"
"Very good weird." You wrapped your arms around his neck. "Oscar?"
"Yeah?"
"Kiss me?”
He did, and this time when he pulled you close you could feel all of him against you. Feel how hard his cock was, hot and throbbing against you. His hands slid down your back to your ass and he squeezed, pulling you tighter against him.
He pulled back for a second, and you watched him roll the condom on, your mouth dry. Then he was back over you, settling between your legs, and you could feel him there, rubbing his cock between your lips.
He lined himself up, the head pressing into you, and you felt the initial stretch as he started to push in. It was slow, so slow, and you could feel every inch as he entered you.
"Okay?" his voice was strained.
"Yeah. Keep going. Don't stop."
He pushed in further, and the feeling of fullness intensified. You'd already been worked up from touching yourself, but this was so much better.
"You're so—" He stopped, pushing in another inch. "So tight. Fuck."
"More. Keep going."
He did, sliding in until he was fully inside you, his hips flush against yours. You both stayed still for a moment, adjusting. You could feel him everywhere, filling you completely.
"Okay?" he asked again.
"So okay. You feel so good."
"Yeah?" He pulled back slightly, just an inch, then pushed back in. Testing. "Like this?"
"Yes. God, yes."
He did it again, slow and controlled, and you could feel every inch of him sliding in side you. His hand found yours, fingers lacing together, pinning it to the bed beside your head. He picked up the pace slightly and you could feel yourself starting to build again.
"You feel so good," he said against your neck. "So fucking good. Been thinking about this for months."
"Me too,” you panted. “Wanted this. Wanted you."
His other hand came to your hip, holding you steady as he moved. The angle shifted slightly and he hit something deep that made you moan loud.
He adjusted, making sure each thrust hit that same spot. Your free hand went to his back, feeling the flex of his muscles as he moved. You could feel the tension in him, the control he was exerting to keep this slow.
"You can go harder," you said. "I won't break."
"I know. I just—" He thrust in deep and ground against you, making you whimper. "Want to make this last. Want to remember this."
"We can do it again," you said. "Later. Tomorrow. Whenever. But right now I need you to actually fuck me."
Something shifted in his expression. "Yeah?"
"Please."
His hips snapped forward, harder this time, and you cried out.
"Like this?"
"Yes. Fuck. Yes. Like that."
He was breathing harder now, his control slipping. He licked up your stomach, mouthing sloppily over your tits before he sealed his lips over a nipple and sucked. Your pussy involuntarily clenched and Oscar made a strangled sound.
"You're so—" He groaned. "So perfect. Taking me so well."
His rhythm was getting faster, more desperate. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he made a sound you'd never heard from him before.
"Fuck. Do that again."
You did, your legs tightening around him, your hips rising to meet his thrusts.
"Such a good fucking girl," he groaned, and the praise sent heat through you. "Taking it so well."
You cried out as he pounded into you, rougher. You’d never heard him speak like this. His hand slid between you, finding your clit. You jerked into him.
"Oscar—I'm close!"
"Yeah. Me too. Fuck. Me too."
His fingers circled your clit faster, his thrusts getting erratic. You could feel yourself right on the edge.
"Cum for me," he said against your neck. "Go on, be a good girl."
His fingers pressed harder and that's all it took. You came with your back arching off the bed, clamping down on him, pleasure rolling through you in waves. You felt him thrust deep twice, and then he was cumming too, his whole body going taut, your name on his lips.
He collapsed onto you, both of you breathing hard, sweaty and satisfied. You could feel him still inside you, could feel the aftershocks making your muscles twitch.
"Holy shit," he said after a moment, his face still buried in your neck.
"Yeah."
He pulled out carefully, dealing with the condom, then came back to pull you against him. You curled into his side, your head on his chest. He wrapped an arm around you, tucking you closer against his side. "Though I feel like I should probably say I'm sorry for lasting approximately thirty seconds."
"You did not," you giggled, peppering kisses across his chest.
"I definitely did. That was embarrassing."
"It wasn't—"
"It was." His hand absently slid down to your ass and squeezed. "Give me a few minutes and I'll do better."
"Better?"
"Much better." He looked down at you. "I've been thinking about this for months. I have plans."
argh im sorry its kinda awkward i was really struggling to write oscs characterisation
closest to heaven (i'll ever be) ⸻ alex albon x reader.
“it would be unconscionably rude to abandon one's family at the dinner table simply because one's sisters have decided to narrate their entire correspondence in excruciating detail—”
“excruciating!” you exclaim, and you let your eyebrows rise, let a hint of teasing creep into your voice. “how flattering, my lord. i had no idea my letters were such a trial to endure.”
“that is not what i—” he starts, and then he sees your expression and stops, “you are enjoying this.”
“oh, immensely.” you confirm, and you do not bother to hide your smile.
or, the bridgerton au.
word count. 23k
featuring. bridgerton au, the albon family (+ pets), so much yearning, [serena van der woodsen voice] i have to go, surprise logan sargeant cameo, period-accurate views on marriage and courtship, sliiiight nsfw, the sluttiest thing a man can do is have an ethical dilemma over his lust for you.
author's note. i alway say my fics are a behemoth, but this is an entirely different thing. yes, the small gap between employments is the sole reason why i have written over 20,000 words in a fury. i have a long background in writing historical fiction, and it's always my favorite genres to write, so i often wonder why it took me this long to write a historical au. nevertheless, this is a labor of love and also all the tropes of historical rom-coms i have always loved— yearning, horniness, it's got it all !! this is dedicated to kae, eve, a, lily, (@tsunodaradio @spiderbeam @hello-car-fandom + @piastriprincess) and everyone on this account who has ever stuck with me through literally my months of inactivity. will this be a one-off fic? maybe. i have a few more historical aus in mind but that will have to wait. i also forgot until halfway through that there is a youngest brother. please pretend he is just at eton. happy belated birthday, alex albon !! made this 23k words specifically for you. title is from iris by the goo goo dolls.
the band. what is a bridgerton au without an accompanying playlist⸻ entirely curated by me because i have had an obsession with string covers of modern music for forever.
the carriage rattles over cobblestones slick with morning rain, and you press your gloved fingers to the window, watching london unfurl before you.
you had been gone eleven years. eleven years of rolling hills and silence, of your grandfather's library and the slow turn of seasons measured only by which flowers bloomed in the gardens, by which birds returned to nest in the trees outside your bedroom window.
and now you are here.
you smooth your thumb over the letter in your lap, the paper worn soft at the creases from how many times you have folded and unfolded it, traced the elegant loops of lady albon's handwriting. my dearest girl, she had written, it is time you came home.
home. as though you still have one. as though the townhouse where you spent the first twelve years of your life has not been shuttered and sold, as though your mother's name is not still whispered in drawing rooms with that particular tone of half-scandal and half-pity that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin.
but lady albon had written, and lady albon had insisted, and when the dowager viscountess of a family as old and respectable as the albons insists that you will stay with them for the season, that you will have your debut under her sponsorship, that she will not hear a single word of refusal… well. you have learned, over the years, that there are some forces of nature one simply does not argue with.
the carriage turns onto a familiar street. familiar, though you have not seen it in over a decade, familiar because you have dreamed of it, because the memory of these townhouses with their white facades and wrought-iron railings has lived behind your eyelids every night since you were torn away. your heart begins to pound so violently you fear the driver must hear it, fear that the whole of london must hear it, this traitorous organ announcing your return with all the subtlety of a herald's trumpet.
there. the albon residence. fourth house from the corner, distinguished by the climbing roses that lady albon has always insisted upon keeping despite the gardener's yearly protestations that the london air is too foul for such delicate blooms. the roses are in full flower now, a riot of pink and cream spilling over the iron fence, and the sight of them makes your eyes sting.
you are not going to cry. you are three-and-twenty years old, a woman grown, and you are not going to cry over roses.
the carriage slows. stops.
and then—
the blue door flies open before your footman has even lowered the steps, and there is a sound like a small stampede, a blur of muslin and ribbons and flying hair, and you hear your name— your christian name, propriety be damned— shrieked across the morning air in three voices at once.
“you're here!”
you barely have time to gather your skirts before the carriage door is wrenched open and there is zoe, zoe who was eleven years old and missing her two front teeth when you left, zoe who is now a woman grown with her dark hair pinned up in a style that is only slightly askew from her sprint down the front steps. she is reaching for you, laughing and crying all at once, and behind her alicia is bouncing on her heels with an expression of barely contained joy, and behind her is chloe— chloe, who was five years old and still in the nursery when you were sent away, who you know only from letters and the miniature portrait zoe sent you three years ago.
“let her breathe, zoe,” alicia says, though she is already shouldering past her sister to grasp your hands the moment your feet touch the pavement, squeezing so tightly you fear for your circulation. “oh, look at you, look at you— you're so tall—”
“i am precisely the same height i was in my last letter,” you manage, “i believe i even specified—”
“letters are not the same,” chloe interrupts, but then zoe pulls you into an embrace so fierce it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs, and you feel chloe's hand on your arm, and alicia is pressed against your side, and you are surrounded, you are held, and oh, oh, you had forgotten what this feels like, to be wanted somewhere, to have people who are so fiercely glad you exist.
“mama is going to be furious that we did not wait for you in the drawing room like civilized ladies,” zoe says into your shoulder, not sounding the least bit concerned about her mother's fury. “but i told her— i said, mama, i have not seen her in eleven years, i am not going to stand about making small talk when she is right there—”
“you wretched thing!” alicia’s voice overlaps her sister’s, finally pulling back to look at you properly. her eyes are bright, her cheeks flushed, and she looks so much like the girl you remember, “making us wait so long, do you have any idea how many letters i had mama write to your grandfather? the man is utterly impossible, i cannot believe he kept you from us for so many years—“
“it was not entirely his fault,” you begin, but alicia waves a dismissive hand.
“i don't care whose fault it was. you're here now, that's all that matters.”
“oh, well,” you say, “in that case, i don't know what all the fuss is about.”
zoe laughs, the sound bright and startling and exactly the same as you remember, and she links her arm through yours, steering you toward the house as though you might try to escape.
“come,” she says, “come inside, mama has had cook prepare all your favorites— do you still like lemon biscuits? i told her you did but it has been so long and people's tastes change, apparently, though i cannot imagine giving up lemon biscuits personally—”
“i still like lemon biscuits,” you confirm, and you let yourself be pulled up the steps, alicia on your other side, chloe trailing behind.
the townhouse is exactly as you remember and not at all the same— the wallpaper in the entrance hall is new, a soft green that catches the light, and there are fresh flowers on the side table, and the smell of beeswax and lavender wraps around you like an embrace. you stand there for a moment, breathing it in.
“we put you in the room next to mine,” zoe is saying, already halfway up the stairs, “and chloe is across the hall, and alicia is— well, alicia is in the attic, practically—”
“i am not in the attic,” alicia protests, “i am on the third floor, which is perfectly respectable—”
“mama says she will see you for tea once you've freshened up,” chloe adds.
you smile at her, and you hope it does not look as tremulous as it feels. “i look forward to it,” you say, and you mean every word of it.
the room they have given you is lovely, pale blue walls and white linens and a window that overlooks the garden, and there is a pitcher of fresh water on the washstand and a small vase of forget-me-nots on the bedside table.
the maid lady albon has assigned to you— a cheerful, round-faced girl named martha who chatters amiably as she unpacks your trunks— helps you change out of your traveling clothes and into something more suitable for tea. the gown is one of your better ones, a soft blue muslin that your grandfather's housekeeper had insisted you commission before your departure, and you smooth your hands over the fabric as martha arranges your hair, twisting it into something more fashionable than the simple knot you had worn for the journey.
“there now,” martha says, with evident satisfaction, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “right pretty, you are. the young ladies will be so pleased.”
you manage a smile, though your stomach is tight with nerves that have nothing to do with your appearance.
the thing you have not allowed yourself to dwell upon, the thing you have carefully not mentioned in any of your letters, is that the albons have had their own share of scandal in the years since your departure.
you learned of it through zoe's correspondence, though she had been characteristically circumspect in her telling. something regarding money, she had written, something regarding mama and an investment that went rather badly wrong. you know how these things are. papa has retreated to the countryside to manage his health, and alex has taken over the estate matters. we are quite alright, truly. please do not worry.
do not worry, she had said, as though you could do anything else.
the details had come to you in fragments over the following months, both from gossip and from the girls’ letters. the albons, it had seemed, had come across certain financial decisions… investments that had seemed sound at the time but had ultimately proven disastrous. the loss had not been ruinous, not quite, but it had been significant enough to cause a stir among the ton, significant enough that lord albon had retreated to their northern estate in what everyone understood to be shame, unable to bear the whispers and the knowing looks.
he had passed there, three years later, without ever returning to london.
and lady albon, beautiful, gracious lady albon, who had welcomed you into her home when your own mother was too busy with her affairs to notice you existed, had been left to raise her children alone, her reputation tarnished, her husband gone, her eldest son forced to shoulder the burden of the estate at an age when he should have been enjoying his youth.
perhaps that is why she wrote to you. perhaps that is why she has opened her home to you now, when so many others would have turned you away. she understands, in a way that few others can, what it means to be marked by scandal.
you descend the stairs with your heart in your throat, following the sound of the girls’ laughter to the parlour, and when you step through the doorway, lady albon looks up from her seat with a smile that makes your eyes sting all over again.
“my dear girl,” she says, setting aside her embroidery and rising to take your hands in hers, and her grip is firm and warm and exactly as you remember, the hands of a woman who has weathered storms and come out the other side still standing. “let me look at you. oh, let me look at you. you have your mother's eyes— did you know that? i always told her so, though she never believed me—”
“lady albon—” you begin, but she cuts you off with a sound of pure exasperation.
“it is minky to you,” she says, squeezing your hands once before releasing them, “as it has always been, as it will always be, at least in the privacy of our own home. i did not help your mother plan her wedding and hold you as an infant and watch you grow into this remarkable young woman only to have you lady albon me in my own parlour. sit, sit—zoe, stop hovering and pour the tea—”
you sit, because there is nothing else to do when minky albon gives an order, and zoe rolls her eyes, but does as her mother says anyway.
“you look well,” minky muses, “the country air has agreed with you. though i suspect you are glad to be away from it, yes?”
“i am glad to be here,” you say, and you mean it so fiercely the words come out rough-edged. “i cannot thank you enough— the invitation, the sponsorship, all of it—”
minky waves a hand, “nonsense. you are practically family, and it is high time you were given the season you deserve. besides—” and here her eyes glint with something that might be mischief, “— i have three daughters to marry off, and i find the prospect far less tedious with the addition of a fourth.”
“mama,” zoe protests, but she is grinning as she passes you a cup of tea, “you make it sound as though we are horses at auction.”
“the marriage mart is hardly more dignified,” alicia observes, “but at least we are not expected to trot.”
“give it time,” chloe murmurs, and you nearly choke on your tea.
“you are not even out yet, young lady, so i will thank you to keep your cynicism to yourself.” minky turns back to you, and her expression softens. “now. we must discuss the practicalities. the season is already underway, but we have managed to secure you a presentation— lady norris has been kind enough to host a ball tomorrow evening, and the queen herself will be in attendance. it is not a formal drawing room presentation, but it will serve well enough to introduce you to society properly.”
“the norris ball!” alicia exclaims, “oh, it will be such fun— their eldest, oliver, is terribly serious and thinks himself very important because he is heir to an duchy—”
"he is heir to an duchy,” zoe points out.
“—yes, but he does not have to be so boring about it,” alicia continues, undeterred. "and their second son, lando, is an absolute menace. charming, of course, devastatingly so, but absolutely impossible! he flirts with everyone— everyone!— and never seems to mean a word of it, and he and alex are thick as thieves, which means we are constantly subjected to his presence at family dinners, and—”
“he is one of alex's closest friends,” zoe clarifies, noting your confusion. “they met at eton, i believe. lando is... well. you shall see for yourself tomorrow.”
“oh, speaking of alex!” alicia exclaims, sitting up so suddenly that her tea sloshes dangerously in its cup. “is he not due back from the mercer estate tomorrow? i thought he was meant to arrive just in time for the ball.”
“you will finally meet him,” chloe notes, watching you those wide eyes. “is that not strange? that you have known us so long and never met our brother?”
“i have thought of it,” you admit, because there is no point in pretending otherwise. “he was always— elsewhere. school, i believe. so i have not had the pleasure.”
the pleasure. as though you have not spent years constructing an image of him in your mind from the fragments the girls have shared. as though you did not, as a child of eleven, develop a most embarrassing fascination with the portrait of the young heir that hung in the upstairs hallway, a boy of fifteen in that painting, a slight smile on his lips despite the solemness of the painting. as though you did not write his name in the margins of your journal, once, twice, a hundred times, before tearing out the pages in a fit of mortified practicality.
it had seemed so silly, even then. a childhood infatuation with a boy you had never met, constructed entirely from a painted image and the adoring words of his sisters. you had been eleven years old and desperately lonely, and he had been the romantic hero of every novel you had ever read, distant and mysterious and perfect in the way that only imaginary figures can be.
“he is very good at being elsewhere,” alicia says, “but he is also very good at being present, when he chooses to be. you will like him, i think. everyone does.”
“alicia is biased,” chloe says, “because alex taught her to ride and let her borrow his books and generally spoiled her terribly when we were small—”
“as opposed to you, who he also taught to ride and let borrow his books and generally spoiled terribly?”
“i am not biased,” alicia protests, with tremendous dignity. “i am simply stating facts. alex is— alex. you will see.”
“tomorrow, then,” you say, and from the opposite sofa, zoe grins at you, bright and knowing.
“tomorrow,” she agrees. “and oh, it is going to be wonderful.”
the norris estate blazes with light, every window glowing gold against the darkening sky, and you can hear the music spilling out onto the gravel drive before the carriage has even come to a full stop. by the time you actually do step out of the carriage, your heart is already beating too fast, fluttering against your ribs like a caged bird, and you press your gloved hand flat against your stomach as though you might physically still the tremor of your nerves.
“breathe!” alicia whispers, leaning close enough that her breath tickles your ear. “you look positively green, and green does not complement that gown at all.”
"i am not green," you whisper back, though you cannot say with any certainty that this is true. "i am merely... contemplative."
“she is terrified,” zoe observes from your other side, though not unkindly. “which is perfectly reasonable. alicia was sick in the garden before her first ball. twice.”
”that was the oysters!” alicia protests.
“it was nerves. the oysters were merely… contributory.”
lady albon, resplendent in deep blue silk, fixes all three of you with a look that somehow manages to convey both fondness and warning. “if the three of you are quite finished,” she says, “we do have a queen to greet and a young lady to present. compose yourselves.”
chloe had been left at home, of course, protesting loudly that it was entirely unfair that she should miss your debut when she had been waiting to meet you for practically her whole life. but she was not yet out, and rules were rules, no matter how one might rail against them. you had promised to tell her everything, every last detail, and she had made you swear on your own dowry (which, admittedly, is not much) that you would not leave out a single dance or gown or whispered gossip.
the ballroom, when you finally enter, is a whirlwind of bodies and candlelight and colour: ladies in silks of every shade imaginable, gentlemen in dark coats and crisp cravats, the glitter of jewels at throats and wrists and ears. the queen herself is holding court at the far end of the room, surrounded by a small constellation of ladies-in-waiting, and even from this distance you can see the knowing tilt of her chin, the way the crowd constantly fixes their eyes on her, despite their total unsublety.
your presentation passes in a blur of curtsies and murmured pleasantries, the queen's sharp eyes assessing you for one endless moment before she nods, and you are released, dismissed, folded into the swirl of the evening like a single drop of water into an ocean. you remember very little of what was said. you think you did not embarrass yourself. that will have to be enough.
“well done,” lady albon says quietly, her hand briefly warm on your elbow. “now, enjoy yourself. that is an order.”
and then she is swept away into conversation with a group of ladies her own age, and you are left with zoe and alicia, who immediately steer you toward a relatively quiet corner where you can observe the proceedings without being directly in the fray.
“right,” zoe starts, “allow me to bring you up to speed on the season's developments, as you have missed the first three weeks and quite a lot has happened.”
“is this strictly necessary?” you ask, but you are smiling, still.
“absolutely essential,” alicia confirms.
“very well.” you acquiesce, moving to lean against the wall, “tell me everything.”
zoe takes a breath. "lord acosta’s daughter— you remember the acostas, yes? the house with the pretty garden? well, she has set her cap for the lord hamilton’s eldest ward, which is ambitious to say the least, given that he has shown absolutely no interest in anyone this season and seems to actively flee whenever a young lady approaches him with that particular gleam in her eye."
“the gleam of matrimonial intent!” alicia supplies with glee.
“precisely! meanwhile, the beaumont twins have both decided they are in love with the same gentleman— a mister chen, who is very handsome, very wealthy, very oblivious— and their mother is at her absolute wit's end trying to keep them from coming to blows over who saw him first.”
“this is absurd!” you exclaim, but you are laughing, your eyes following theirs, “are there no straightforward attachments this season? no simple, uncomplicated courtships?”
zoe and alicia exchange a look.
“no!” they say in unison, and zoe adds, “where would be the entertainment in that?”
the music shifts, the first dance of the evening beginning to form, and you watch as couples take their places on the floor. zoe is claimed almost immediately by a gentleman you do not recognize, and alicia is not far behind, swept onto the floor by a friend of the family whose name you have already forgotten.
and you— well, you remain where you are, pressed against the wall, watching.
it is not unexpected. you are new, unknown, the subject of whispers that have followed you since you walked through the door— that is the one, is it not? her mother's daughter, back from wherever they sent her, the albons have taken her in, how very charitable of them. the ton has a long memory, and your family's scandal is not so old that it has been forgotten. perhaps you will be asked to dance later, once curiosity overcomes caution. perhaps you will not. you have prepared yourself for this possibility, have armored yourself with low expectations.
and yet… it still stings, watching your friends laugh and turn in the arms of partners who sought them out, while you stand alone with your punch and your carefully neutral expression.
you let your gaze drift across the room, cataloging faces, looking for… something, though you are not certain what. a friendly countenance, perhaps. someone who might be willing to speak with you, to break the strange isolation that has settled around you.
and then you see him.
he is standing near one of the tall windows, half-turned away from the room as though he would rather be looking at the gardens than the glittering crowd.he is tall, dark-haired, and handsome, incredibly so, with a face that seems made for smiling even though he is not smiling now. his coat is well-cut and clearly expensive, his cravat tied with a kind of careless precision that suggests either great skill or a very good valet, and he is—
he is looking at you.
your breath catches.
he looks away immediately, almost guiltily, fixing his gaze on some point in the middle distance, but you saw. you saw him watching you across the crowded room, saw the flicker of something in his expression before he schooled it into neutrality, and the thing is—
the thing is you know him.
not personally, no. you have never been in the same room with him before this very moment, but, you know the set of his shoulders from years of studying a portrait that hung in the albons' drawing room, know the shape of his jaw from the miniature zoe sent you three christmases ago.
lord alexander albon.
a silly childhood crush, you had called it then, and you had told yourself you had outgrown it, had left it behind with all the other childish things you had been forced to abandon when your world collapsed. you are a woman now, not a girl, and you do not form attachments to men you have never met based on portraits and secondhand stories and a few kind words in fading ink.
and yet.
and yet.
he glances at you again, quick and furtive, and this time when your eyes meet he does not look away immediately— he holds your gaze for one endless, breathless moment, and you see colour rise in his cheeks, see the way his throat moves as he swallows, and something reckless seizes hold of you, something that feels like the girl you used to be.
you set down your glass of punch, smooth your skirts, swallow the heavy feeling in your throat, and you walk across the ballroom floor toward him, weaving through the crowd with a confidence you believe is entirely fabricated, your heart pounding so loudly you are certain the entire room must be able to hear it.
he watches you approach. he does not flee, though he looks for a moment as though he is considering it, his hand tightening briefly on the glass he is holding before he seems to consciously relax his grip. up close he is even more handsome than he was at a distance, and you notice that there is a warmth to him, a softness around his eyes that the portrait never captured, and when you stop before him you can see the rapid pulse at the base of his throat, can see the way his lips part slightly as though he means to speak and then thinks better of it.
“lord albon.” you say, giving a brief curtsy, “i believe we have never been formally introduced, though i feel i know you quite well through your sisters' correspondence. i am—”
“i know who you are,” he interrupts, and then immediately looks mortified, colour flooding his face all the way to the tips of his ears. “that is— i meant— my sisters have spoken of you. frequently. at length. i feel as though i have known you for—” he stops, takes a breath, visibly collects himself. “forgive me. it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. a genuine pleasure. i have heard— that is to say—”
he is flustered. this man, who for all intents and purposes is a viscount, this figure who has loomed so large in your imagination for so long, is flustered, and he is standing before you blushing and stammering like a schoolboy. you are incredibly endeared.
“your sisters told me you would be here tonight,” you say, taking pity on him, offering him an easier thread to grasp, “they were beginning to wonder if you had forgotten the way to london.”
he laughs, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. “the tenants' drainage issues were rather more complicated than anticipated,” he admits, “though i confess the journey back was… motivated.” he seems to realize what he has said and immediately looks as though he wishes the floor would swallow him whole. “by the season. by the start of the season. my sisters— they would not have forgiven me if i missed—”
the orchestra begins a new piece. around you, couples are pairing off again, moving toward the dance floor, and you watch his gaze flicker to the swirl of silk and candlelight before returning to your face, and you see the question there, the hesitation, the way he opens his mouth and then closes it again as though he cannot find the words.
eleven years, you think. eleven years of waiting, of wondering, of holding the idea of him like a pressed flower between the pages of your heart.
“lord albon,” you say, and you smile, “are you going to ask me to dance?”
his eyes widen. the flush on his cheeks deepens impossibly further. “i was working up to it,” he admits, “i have been working up to it for—” he stops, shakes his head, and when he meets your eyes again there is a steadiness there that was not present before, “would you do me the honor of this dance, my lady?”
he extends his hand, and you take it. his hand is warm through the thin fabric of your gloves, warm and solid and real, and you let him lead you onto the floor with your heart hammering against your ribs like it is trying to escape the confines of your chest.
the other dancers are a mere blur around you, a swirl of colour and movement at the edges of your vision, all because you find you cannot look away from his face, at he way his eyes keep darting to yours and then away again.
“you are very quiet,” you observe, after a full eight bars of the dance have passed in silence. “your sisters led me to believe you were rather more talkative.”
he huffs a laugh, soft and surprised, and some of the tension in his shoulders eases. “my sisters,” he says, “have a great deal to answer for. i dread to think what else they have told you.”
"only good things," you assure him,and you cannot help the smile that curves your lips, “well… mostly good things. your sisters are... very thorough in their correspondence.”
something sparks in his eyes, and the tension in his shoulders eases slightly. “they are, aren't they? i shudder to think what they have told you about me. all lies, i assure you.”
“all of it?”
“well.” his mouth twitches, “perhaps not all. but certainly the most embarrassing parts.”
you laugh, “ah, so all of them, then.”
he chuckles, shakes his head, “you are not so inclined towards wit in your letters.”
you raise a brow, “you have read my letters? to your sisters?”
the question slips out before you can stop it, and you watch the colour rise in his cheeks again, that telltale flush that seems to give away every thought in his head.
“not— not all of them,” he says, and he sounds almost defensive now, “only… sometimes they would read passages aloud. at dinner. and i could not exactly leave—”
“of course not,” you nod, fighting to keep your expression serious. “that would be rude.”
“exactly. it would be unconscionably rude to abandon one's family at the dinner table simply because one's sisters have decided to narrate their entire correspondence in excruciating detail—”
“excruciating!” you exclaim, and you let your eyebrows rise, let a hint of teasing creep into your voice. “how flattering, my lord. i had no idea my letters were such a trial to endure.”
“that is not what i—” he starts, and then he sees your expression and stops, “you are enjoying this.”
“oh, immensely.” you confirm, and you do not bother to hide your smile. “you turn the most remarkable shade of red when you are embarrassed, did you know that? it is quite fetching.”
“i–” he begins, but then the music ends. around you, couples are separating, bowing and curtsying, drifting apart to find new partners or refreshments or the relative safety of the room's edges. you should step back. you should curtsy and thank him for the dance and allow him to return you to his sisters like a proper gentleman escorting a proper lady.
you do not move, and neither does he.
“lord albon,” you say, and your voice comes out softer than you intend to, “i find i am rather glad we have finally met.”
“as am i, my lady,” he says, eyes still trained on yours as he bends down to press a kiss to your gloved hand, “as am i.”
the days that follow the norris ball pass in a blur of morning calls and afternoon teas and evening entertainments, a whirlwind of social obligations that leaves you breathless and exhausted and strangely, achingly alive in a way you had forgotten you could feel.
you attend musicales where young ladies of varying talent perform for politely captive audiences, promenades through hyde park where the ton parades itself in all its finery and pretends not to notice who is walking with whom. you smile until your cheeks ache. you make conversation until your voice grows hoarse. you dance with gentlemen whose names you forget almost as soon as they release your hand.
you tell yourself that this is what you came here for, that this is the purpose of the season, this is your one chance to secure a future that does not involve returning to your grandfather's estate, or becoming a governess to a pack of what you assume would be spoiled brats, waiting for the lessons to end so they may cajole around in the sun.
one fact remains, though: alexander albon makes himself scarce.
you see him at breakfast, sometimes, already halfway through his coffee and the morning papers when you come down, and he will look up and nod politely and inquire after your sleep with the distant courtesy of a man addressing a houseguest he barely knows.
you see him in the hallways, passing like ships in the night, and he will murmur good afternoon or pardon me and continue on his way without breaking stride. you see him leaving for the gentlemen’s club or arriving home from some business meeting or another, always in motion, always just out of reach, and you tell yourself it does not matter, you tell yourself you are being foolish, you tell yourself that one dance does not make a courtship and one conversation does not make a connection and you have no claim on his time or his attention or the warmth that had flickered in his eyes when he held you in his arms and told you he was glad to have met you.
very well then. you cannot simply sit around and wait for a man to notice you, no matter how long your infatuation for him might have been. there is a deadline for you, a ticking clock in the back of your head, and you cannot afford to wait. that is the truth of it.
you will just have to be practical.
it is a quiet tuesday afternoon, which should be noted as a rare occasion, given the revolving wheel of suitors and callers that seemingly appear at the albons’ front door, and you are in the parlour with zoe and alicia and chloe, all four of you crammed onto one settee in a way that is entirely improper and entirely comfortable, passing the latest society papers back and forth and reading the most ridiculous passages aloud in increasingly dramatic voices.
“the society papers report that a certain young baron was seen leaving the beaumont residence at an hour most unbecoming of a gentleman caller,” zoe reads from over your shoulder, as you are holding the papers at the moment, her voice dripping with affected scandal, “one can only speculate as to the nature of his business, though this author suspects it had rather more to do with matters of the heart than matters of finance.”
“the beaumont residence!” alicia gasps, her eyes going wide. “that is where the twins live. clara and catherine! the ones fighting over mister chen.”
“do you think he has made his choice?” chloe asks, leaning forward, trying to get a glimpse of the papers.
“if he has any sense, he will flee the country,” you say, and the girls dissolve into giggles, a bright cascade of sound that fills the parlour like sunshine.
then, the laughter cuts abruptly, and you turn to see lord albon standing in the doorway, frozen mid-step as though he had not expected to find the parlour occupied.
“alex,” zoe says, her voice bright with false innocence, “how lovely of you to join us. we were just catching up on the latest gossip.”
he clears his throat. shifts his weight. he does not quite meet your eyes. “so i’ve heard,” he says, voice careful, “i did not mean to interrupt.”
“you are not interrupting,” alicia says sweetly, “we were merely reading the society papers. nothing of consequence.”
“nothing of consequence.” he repeats. “i was not aware that the gossip column qualified as essential reading.”
“it is entertaining reading,” zoe corrects. “there is a difference.”
“is there?” he asks, moving into the room properly now, crossing to the settee opposite yours his eyes flicker to you, once, quickly, and then away again, fixing on some point on the far wall as though it contains information of vital importance.
you lower the paper just enough to peer over its edge, meeting his gaze, “surely,” you say, and you let your voice curl around the words like silk, “it is not a sin to indulge in the society papers, my lord?”
his cheeks flood with colour, and his mouth opens and closes twice before any sound emerges, and when it does it is not words so much as a strangled sort of noise that might be protest or might be surrender or might be something else entirely.
“i— that is not— i did not say it was a sin,” he manages, and his voice has gone slightly higher than usual, slightly breathless. “i merely— i only meant—”
"he is flustered!" chloe exclaims, “look, his ears have gone red!”
“they have not!” he protests.
“they absolutely have,” alicia confirms, grinning. “they always do when he is flustered. it is one of his tells.”
“i do not have tells—”
“you have many tells,” zoe shrugs, “you are, in fact, the least subtle person in this family, which is saying something given that chloe once tried to hide a squirrel in her wardrobe for three weeks.”
“the squirrel was very quiet!” chloe protests.
“the squirrel ate mother's favorite gloves!”
“that was never proven—”
“i believe we were discussing lord albon's tells,” you interrupt, grinning at him with a glint of mischief in your eyes, “please, do continue. i find myself fascinated.”
alexander drops his head into his hands in a gesture of defeat. “you are all impossible,” he says, but there is no heat in it, no real frustration, only warmth, only the exasperated affection of a man who loves his family even when they are determined to torment him, “every last one of you.”
“and yet you keep us!” zoe says, reaching across the space between the settees to pat his knee in a gesture that is more mocking than comforting.
“i keep you,” he agrees, raising his head to meet her eyes, “because i have no choice in the matter. you are, unfortunately, blood relations.”
“and her?” alicia asks, nodding toward you with a sly expression that makes your cheeks warm. “she is not a blood relation. will you keep her too?”
the parlour goes quiet.
“i—” he starts, and then stops, and then looks at his sisters with an expression of profound betrayal. “you are all impossible!”
“you already said that,” chloe points out.
“it bears repeating.”
“but you did not answer the question,” zoe presses, and she is relentless, she has always been relentless, and you want to kiss her and strangle her in equal measure, “will you keep her? we have already decided that we shall, so really it is only a matter of whether you are in agreement—”
“zoe.”
“what? it is a simple question—”
“nothing about this is simple,” he says, and his voice is quieter now, more serious, and when he looks at you again there is something in his expression that makes you acutely aware of every breath you take and every beat of your heart.
“we like her,” alicia adds softly, and the teasing has gone out of her voice, “we have always liked her, alex. and she is here now, finally, after all these years. does that not count for something?”
he does not answer, at least not with words, but his eyes stay on yours.
“i should—” he clears his throat, rises from the settee with a jerky, graceless motion, “i have business to attend to. if you will excuse me.”
and then he is gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click, and you are left staring at the space where he was with your heart pounding and your mind racing and the echo of his almost-answer ringing in your ears.
one of the things you have come to learn about the albons, in the weeks since your arrival, is that they are not so much a family who keeps pets as they are a family who has been slowly, persistently taken over by animals.
it had started with frooky, or so zoe had explained during your first bewildering morning when you had come down to breakfast and found a large, frowning cat sitting in the center of the dining table like a furry centerpiece, calmly grooming himself while the family ate around him as though this were perfectly normal behavior.
“once you have one cat,” alicia had said, “you somehow end up with eleven. it is simply the way of things.”
"eleven?" you had repeated, certain you had misheard.
“eleven,” chloe had confirmed, ticking them off on her fingers. "frooky, moomoo, hippo, gigi, blue bear, stan, horsey…” and then she had continued to list them off, all with endearingly ridiculous names.
there are also, you have since learned, a dog and two ponies at the family's countryside estate, a fact that chloe had shared with tremendous enthusiasm and alex had confirmed with the weary resignation of a man who has accepted his fate.
you have met most of the cats by now, though you confess you cannot always tell them apart, and you know there are several grey ones who blur together in your memory, but you have grown fond of them regardless, these soft warm bodies that appear on your bed at night and wind around your ankles at meals and generally make themselves at home in every corner of your borrowed life here in london.
this afternoon, you are in the library.
it is a rare moment of solitude; zoe and alicia have gone calling with their mother, and chloe is practicing her pianoforte under the supervision of her governess. you had intended to spend the time reading, had been eyeing the albons' collection for days, and when you had finally found yourself alone you had made your way here with something approaching reverence.
the library is beautiful, all dark wood and tall windows, and the shelves stretch floor to ceiling, stuffed with volumes in no apparent order: philosophical treatises shelved beside gothic novels, scientific journals mixed in with poetry collections, everything jumbled together in a way that suggests the albons read widely and eclectically and do not much care for organization.
the book you want is on the top shelf. of course it is.
you eye the ladder that leans against the far wall, consider fetching it, and then decide that the step stool tucked into the corner will suffice. after all, the book is not that high, and you are not that short, and surely you can manage without going to the trouble of maneuvering a full ladder across the room.
this, as it turns out, is a miscalculation.
you position the step stool beneath the relevant section of shelving, gather your skirts in one hand to keep them from tangling around your feet, and ascend the two steps with what you feel is a feat of admirable grace. the book, a collection of essays on natural philosophy that you have been longing to read since you spotted it three days ago, is just within reach, your fingertips brushing the spine, and you stretch up onto your toes to get a better grip—
—and something moves in the shadows of the upper shelf.
you have approximately half a second to register a pair of gleaming eyes and a flash of grey fur before the cat launches itself directly at your face.
what follows is not, strictly speaking, dignified.
there is a yowl— from the cat or from you, you genuinely cannot say— and a flailing of limbs, and a desperate grab for the shelf that only succeeds in dislodging approximately a dozen books from their places. the step stool tips, and your balance abandons you entirely. and then you are falling, books raining down around you as you you hit the floor with a thump that knocks the breath from your lungs and sends a sharp bolt of pain through your hip and elbow.
for a moment you simply lie there, stunned, staring up at the ceiling while dust swirls in the afternoon light and somewhere above you a cat makes a sound of profound indignation, as though you are the one who has behaved unreasonably.
“what in god’s name—!”
the voice comes from the doorway, and you turn your head to see alexander albon standing frozen at the threshold with an expression of pure horror on his face, his eyes darting from you to the scattered books to the step stool lying on its side.
“‘m fine,” you say, which is perhaps optimistic given that you have not yet attempted to move, but it seems like the right thing to say, “i'm— there was a cat—”
he is across the room before you finish the sentence, dropping to his knees beside you with a complete disregard for his trousers, his hands hovering over you as though he wants to touch but is not certain he is allowed.
“are you hurt?” he demands, “can you move? should i send for a doctor? what happened—”
“a cat,” you repeat, and despite everything, despite the ache in your hip and the embarrassment burning in your cheeks and the fact that you are lying on the floor of his library surrounded by fallen books like some sort of disaster, you find yourself laughing, “a cat jumped at me. from the shelf. i think— i think it might have been moomoo—”
you both look toward the window at the same moment.
moomoo is sitting on the windowsill, one leg extended toward the ceiling as he attends to his… personal grooming with the focused dedication of a creature who has never done anything wrong in his entire life.
“moomoo,” alexander says, and there is a wealth of exasperation in that single word, a lifetime of similar incidents condensed into two syllables, “of course it was moomoo.”
“he came out of nowhere,” you say, and you are still laughing, you cannot seem to stop, the absurdity of the situation finally catching up with you, “i was just— i wanted a book—”
“let me help you up,” he says, and before you can protest his hand is closing around yours, warm even through both your gloves, and his other hand is at your elbow, steadying you as you struggle into a sitting position, “slowly, now. does anything feel broken? sprained?”
you take a moment to assess, wiggling your fingers and toes, rotating your wrists and ankles. everything seems to be in working order, though you suspect you will have some spectacular bruises by dinner, “i am intact,” you report, “merely… dented.”
“dented,” he echoes, and when you look at him his lips are twitching, almost into a smile, “that is one word for it.”
“i prefer to maintain my dignity wherever possible,” you say, with as much primness as you can muster, “even in circumstances that actively conspire against me.”
“here,” he says, reaching a hand out, “let me—”
you take his hand, let him pull you upright. when you stand, you are unsteady for a moment, and he reaches out, places a hand on your waist to balance you. for a moment you are standing very close to him, close enough to see the individual threads of his cravat, close enough to see the way his throat moves when he swallows, the way his eyes flicker down to your mouth and then away again. the hand on your waist sears through like a burn.
“the books,” you say, stepping away from him, from his grasp, because you have to say something, because the silence is becoming unbearable. “we should— i should—”
“yes,” he agrees, and his voice sounds strange, rougher than usual, “yes, we should—”
you both bend down at the same moment, and your fingers close around the spine of a fallen volume at the exact instant his do.
you freeze. he freezes. and then you are both crouched on the library floor with your hands overlapping on a copy of the mysteries of udolpho, your gloved fingers tangled together, your faces inches apart.
“oh,” you breathe.
his eyes meet yours. hold. and you see something flicker behind them, before a shutter seems to fall, some invisible wall slamming into place between one heartbeat and the next.
he pulls his hand back as though burned.
“forgive me,” he says, and his voice has gone strange again, “i should not have— that was—”
“lord albon,” you start, but he is already rising to his feet, already stepping back, already putting distance between you. “lord albon,” you try again, “please, if i have done something to offend—”
“you have done nothing,” he says, though you do not feel any sort of reassurance, “you have been— you are—”
he stops. shakes his head.
“i should go,” he says, more definitively now, “i have— there is business i must attend to. please excuse me.”
“my lord—”
but he is already gone, the library door closing behind him with a soft click that sounds, in the silence that follows, very much like a period at the end of a sentence.
you stand there for a long moment, and you try very hard not to feel as though something precious has just slipped through your fingers.
from the windowsill, moomoo yawns elaborately and resettles himself in his sunbeam.
the day after next dawns bright and clear, and lady albon declares at breakfast that the entire family will be taking a turn about hyde park after luncheon, no exceptions, no excuses, and she does not want to hear a single word of protest from anyone at this table.
she is looking very pointedly at her son when she says this.
alexander, to his credit, does not protest. he merely inclines his head in acknowledgment and returns his attention to his coffee with the studied nonchalance of a man who is very carefully not looking at anyone else at the table, and you tell yourself that the twist in your chest is indigestion, nothing more.
the walk itself is pleasant enough. the weather holds, though it is a bit crowded; it is easy to disappear with the amount of people, easier to slide beneath the rush of the crowd.
lady albon leads the brigade, with zoe and alicia are linked in arms, chattering, while you and chloe enjoy companiable silence behind them. alexander is a half-step behind with his hands clasped behind his back and his gaze fixed on some middle distance that seems to exist only for him.
you steal glances at him when you think he is not looking, cataloging the line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders, the way the sunlight catches in his dark hair. he is beautiful in a way that feels almost unfair, and you wish that beauty were enough. that wanting were enough. that you could simply reach out and touch him without the whole complicated machinery of society grinding into motion around you.
but you cannot. and so you walk, and you do not touch, and you try to content yourself with proximity.
ahead of you, zoe lets out a small shriek of delight.
“lottie!” she calls, dropping alicia's arm and gathering her skirts to hurry toward a cluster of young ladies near the serpentine. “charlotte liao, is that you? i did not know you were back from bath—”
and then all three albon sisters are gone, swept up in the unexpected reunion, and you are left standing on the path with alexander, watching them embrace and exclaim and generally behave as though they have not seen each other in years rather than weeks.
“are you not going to join them?” alexander asks, after a moment.
“no,” you say, curtly, “i think not.”
“may i ask why?”
“i am wrought with scandal enough,” you say simply. “miss liao’s family is well-respected, well-connected. the last thing she needs is to be seen associating with the daughter of—” you stop, swallow. “well. you know what they say about my mother.”
he is quiet for a long moment. when you glance at him, his expression is unreadable.
“the ton has a long memory,” he says finally, “they remember what they wish to remember, and they forget what is convenient to forget.”
“your family's troubles seem to have faded more quickly than mine,” you observe, and there is no accusation in it, only a simple statement of fact, “your sisters are received everywhere. your mother is welcomed in the finest drawing rooms. your own prospects are—”
“my own prospects are complicated,” he interrupts, not unkindly, “our debts are paid, yes, and the worst of the whispers have died down, but the ton does not truly forget. they simply… wait.” his mouth twists into something that is not quite a smile. “the albons have survived, but survival is not the same as acceptance. my sisters will make good matches because they are charming and beautiful and will not carry the albon name in marriage, and my mother has worked tirelessly to repair our reputation, but there will always be those who remember.”
“at least they whisper quietly,” you say, and you cannot quite keep the bitterness from your voice, “my family's scandal is still spoken of openly. my mother's choices, my father's—” you break off, shaking your head, “it does not matter. i did not come to london expecting to be embraced by society. i came because your mother was kind enough to offer me a chance, and i intend to make the most of it, whatever that looks like.”
“and what does that look like?” he asks. “to you?”
you consider the question. it is not one you have allowed yourself to examine too closely, the boundaries of your expectations.
“a respectable match,” you say eventually, "a home of my own. children, perhaps. a life that is… quiet. stable, at least. free from the constant reminder of where i came from and what my parents did.” you pause, and then, “i do not expect love. i am not foolish enough to hope for it. but i would like… contentment. someone who does not flinch when they hear my family name.”
he is quiet for so long that you begin to think he will not respond at all. when you look at him, his jaw is tight, his hands still clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the distant figures of his sisters.
“that seems a modest ambition,” he says finally, and his voice is strange, as though something is caught in his throat, “for someone who deserves so much more.”
you have to look away for a moment to collect yourself, to press down the sudden surge of emotion that threatens to spill over. “perhaps,” you say, when you trust your voice again, “but i have learned that deserving and receiving are rarely the same thing. i will take what i can get and be grateful for it.”
“you should not have to—” he starts, and then stops, shaking his head sharply. “forgive me. it is not my place.”
“no,” you agree softly, “it is not.”
“my sisters are returning,” he says, and his voice is neutral again, “we should continue our walk.”
you nod, because there is nothing else to do, and when zoe bounds up to take your arm and demand to know what you and alexander have been discussing in such serious tones, you smile and tell her nothing of consequence, nothing at all.
but later that night, lying in your bed with frooky curled warm and heavy on your feet, you stare at the ceiling and think about the look on his face when he said you deserve so much more, and you allow yourself, just for a moment, just in the privacy of your own mind, to imagine a world in which deserving and receiving might, somehow, impossibly, be the same.
and then you close your eyes and put the thought away, fold it up small and tuck it into the same corner of your heart where you keep all the other things you cannot have, and you tell yourself that friendship is enough. that if alexander albon cannot be a suitor, then you will be content with him as a friend. that wanting more is foolish and futile and will only lead to heartbreak.
you tell yourself many things.
you believe almost none of them.
“you are going to fall.”
alex's voice drifts up from somewhere below you, tinged with concern and what might be amusement. you do not look down—you are balanced on a narrow ledge of the garden wall, reaching for a climbing rose that has wound itself around the upper branches of a nearby trellis, and looking down seems like a poor strategic choice.
“i am not going to fall,” you say, with more confidence than you feel. “i have excellent balance.”
“you have reckless balance. there is a difference.”
“the rose is right there. if i can just—” you stretch further, fingertips brushing the stem, and feel the ledge shift slightly beneath your feet.
“for god's sake—”
and then his hands are at your waist, steadying you, warm and solid through the thin fabric of your dress, and you are suddenly very aware of how close he is standing, how easily he could pull you down from this ridiculous perch, how your heart has begun to beat in an entirely undignified rhythm.
“i had it under control,” you say, slightly breathless.
“you were about to plummet into the rose bushes.” his voice is dry, but his hands remain at your waist, and he has not stepped back. “which would have been difficult to explain to my mother. sorry, lady albon, your houseguest has impaled herself on your prize-winning floribundas.”
“it would have made for excellent gossip, at least.”
“a small comfort when you are being extracted from shrubbery by the gardening staff.” he pauses. “why, exactly, are you attempting to scale the garden wall?”
you point to the rose, a perfect bloom, deep crimson, just out of reach. “for chloe. she mentioned at breakfast that red roses are her favorite, and i noticed this one blooming earlier. i thought—” you shrug, suddenly self-conscious, “i thought it might make her smile. she has been melancholy lately. missing her friend who left for the country.”
his hands tighten almost imperceptibly at your waist.
“you noticed that,” he says quietly, “that she has been melancholy.”
“it is not difficult to notice, when you pay attention,” you risk a glance down at him and find his expression soft, almost wondering, “she tries to hide it, but she has not been herself. i know what it is like to miss someone. to feel left behind.”
for a moment he simply looks at you, and there is something in his eyes that makes your breath catch, something that looks almost like recognition, like seeing.
“come down,” he says finally, finally withdrawing his hands from your waist, “i will get the rose for you.”
“you?”
“i am taller. and i am significantly less likely to end up impaled on shrubbery.” he holds out his hand, waiting. “trust me?”
you look at his outstretched palm, at the steady certainty in his eyes, and you make a decision.
“yes,” you say, and you let him help you down.
he retrieves the rose with considerably more grace than you would have managed— a simple reach, a careful twist to avoid the thorns, and then the bloom is in his hand, perfect and unblemished.
“for you,” he says, presenting it with a small bow, “to give to chloe.”
“thank you,” you take it carefully, mindful of the thorns, “though you have now robbed me of my dramatic garden-scaling narrative. i was planning to tell her i risked life and limb.”
“you can still tell her that. i will corroborate your story.” his eyes crinkle, “i will even add embellishments. a treacherous wind. a near-death experience. perhaps a small fire.”
“a fire seems excessive!” you exclaim, but when you turn to look at him, he is holding back a laugh.
he falls into step beside you as you make your way back toward the house, and the silence between you is comfortable in a way that surprises you. “you are good with them, you know. my sisters. they adore you.”
“they are easy to adore in return.”
“they are terrors,” he corrects, but there is nothing but fondness in his voice, “well-meaning terrors, but terrors nonetheless. the fact that you have survived all these weeks in their company without fleeing speaks highly of your fortitude.”
“i have practice with terrors, you do not know what horrors i’ve endured in the countryside.”
“horrors!”
“oh, yes,” you respond, nodding solemnly, though you cannot hide the smile on your face, “the ghosts, the phantoms—”
“you have too much fun jesting at my expense—” he cuts himself off, almost saying your name, but he clears his throat, corrects himself, “my lady.”
you glance at him, “well, i do not jest entirely. you could say there were other horrors— i mean, it was always lonely, and the draft always did cause a chill, even in the summer months. and my grandfather— oh, when he gets in a mood, he could have such a temper! not that— i mean, he is kind, on most days.”
“he sounds… complicated.”
“he was. is.” you consider how much to share, “he took me in when no one else would. raised me, after everything that happened with my parents. i know he loves me, in his way. but it is a—” you search for the word, “—a distant love. the kind that provides shelter and education and expects gratitude in return. not the kind that—”
you stop, embarrassed by how much you have revealed.
“not the kind that your sisters have,” you finish quietly. “the easy kind. the kind that asks for nothing.”
he is silent for a long moment. when he speaks, his voice is careful.
"my father's love was not the easy kind either," he says. “before the scandal, i thought it was… i thought we were close. but when things fell apart, i realized that what i had mistaken for closeness was actually—” he pauses, “—transaction. he loved me as long as i reflected well on him. as long as i was the son he wanted, rather than the son i was.”
you look at him, and you see something you had not noticed before: a sadness beneath the composure, a loneliness that mirrors your own.
“what kind of son were you?” you ask softly, “the son you were, rather than the one he wanted?”
“i do not know.” he sounds almost surprised by his own answer, “i never had the chance to find out. by the time i was old enough to question it, he was gone. and then i had to become… this. the responsible one. the reliable one.”
“that sounds exhausting.”
“it is.” he laughs, a little ruefully, “but it is also necessary. someone has to do it. and i am the eldest. it falls to me.”
“just because something falls to you does not mean you have to carry it alone.”
he stops walking. turns to look at you.
“no one has ever said that to me before,"”he says quietly, “that i do not have to carry it alone.”
“then the people around you have not been paying attention,” you hold his gaze, refusing to look away, “you are not atlas, albon. the world will not collapse if you set down your burden for a moment. and even atlas… even he had help, in the end. hercules held the sky for him, if only for a little while.”
“are you offering to be my hercules?”
“i am offering to be your friend,” you say. “if you will have me.”
the smile that spreads across his face is slow and wondering, like sunrise creeping over the horizon. “yes,” he says. “i think i would like that very much.”
mr. logan sargeant arrives in your life on a wednesday, during a musicale at the bearman residence that you had been dreading for the better part of a week.
you notice him first because he is standing alone near the refreshment table with the particular expression of a man who has found himself at a party where he knows absolutely no one and is beginning to question every decision that led him to this moment. it is an expression you recognize intimately, having worn it yourself at nearly every social function since your arrival in london, and perhaps that is why you find yourself watching him instead of the young lady currently murdering a sonata at the pianoforte.
he is handsome, clean-cut, fair-haired and blue-eyed, with the kind of face that looks like it smiles easily and often. his coat is well-tailored but not egregious, and there is something about the way he holds himself that seems fundamentally different from the english gentlemen around him, though you cannot quite put your finger on what.
“that,” zoe whispers, leaning close enough that her breath tickles your ear, “is mr. logan sargeant. from the americas.”
she says the words the americas the way one might say the moon, with a mixture of fascination and disbelief, as though she cannot quite credit that such a place exists, let alone that someone from there might find themselves standing in lady bearman’s drawing room looking lost and slightly overwhelmed.
“from the americas?” you repeat, keeping your voice equally low, “what on earth is he doing here?”
“inheriting a barony, apparently,” alicia murmurs from your other side. “it is the most delicious scandal. well, not scandal, precisely, more of a curiosity. he is some sort of distant cousin to the late baron of westbrook, and when the old man died without a direct heir, the title passed to mister sargeant's branch of the family. he arrived in england three months ago to claim the estate and has been trying to establish himself in society ever since.”
“with limited success,” zoe adds, “the ton does not quite know what to make of him. he is a baron now, technically, which means he should be of similar rank to half the men in this room, but he is also american, which means—”
“which means they will never let him forget it,” you finish, understanding settling over you like a familiar weight, “he is an outsider. no matter how legitimate his claim, he will always be the american who stumbled into a title he was never meant to have.”
the sonata ends, thankfully, and the room breaks into polite applause that is perhaps more enthusiastic than the performance warranted, and in the general shuffle that follows you lose sight of mr. sargeant among the crowd. you think nothing more of it until later, when you are standing near the window trying to catch a breath of fresh air and a voice at your side says:
“forgive me– i do not mean to intrude, but you looked as though you might be as desperate to escape as i am, and i thought perhaps we could be desperate together.”
you turn to find mister sargeant standing beside you, his expression apologetic, but also hopeful.
“that is a rather forward introduction.” you observe, but you are smiling despite yourself.
“i apologize,” he says, and he does sound genuinely contrite. “i am still learning the rules here. in america, if you see someone who looks like they might be a kindred spirit, you simply walk up and say hello. i am beginning to understand that things are more complicated in england.”
“everything is more complicated in england,” you agree, nodding, “it is something of a national pastime.”
there is no calculation in him, you realize. no careful assessment of your worth and standing, no subtle cataloging of your family connections and marital prospects. he is simply a man at a party, talking to a woman he hoped might be friendly, and the straightforwardness of it is so refreshing you almost do not know how to respond.
“logan sargeant,” he says, offering a small bow. “baron of westbrook, apparently, though i confess the title still sounds strange when applied to myself. and you are—?”
you give him your name, and you watch his face carefully for the flicker of recognition, the slight tightening around the eyes that usually accompanies the realization of exactly whose daughter you are. but there is nothing, only polite interest and that open, easy smile.
“a pleasure to meet you,” he says, and he sounds as though he means it.
mr. sargeant calls on you the following afternoon.
and the afternoon after that.
and the afternoon after that, until lady albon begins setting an extra place at tea as a matter of course and the servants stop announcing him because everyone already knows who is at the door.
“he likes you,” zoe declares one evening, sprawled across your bed while you attempt to decide between two dinner gowns for the russell ball. “he really likes you. he looks at you like you hung the moon and he cannot quite believe his good fortune in being allowed to stand beneath it.”
“he looks at me like i am the only person in the room who does not make him feel like a complete outsider,” you correct, holding the blue silk up against yourself and frowning at your reflection. “which is not the same thing.”
“it is adjacent to the same thing,” alicia argues from her position by the window. “proximity to the same thing. close enough that the distinction hardly matters.”
“the distinction always matters.”
“does it?” chloe asks, “he makes you laugh. he treats you kindly. he does not care about your family's scandal because he does not know about your family's scandal, and by the time someone bothers to tell him, he will already have formed his own opinion of your character. is that not valuable?”
“it is—” you start, and then stop, because you do not know how to finish the sentence. it is valuable. it is more than i expected. it is not what i want.
but what you want is standing on the other side of a door he refuses to open, and you have spent enough years of your life wanting impossible things. perhaps it is time to accept what is actually being offered.
“mama thinks he would be a good match,” zoe says, more gently now, moving to stand beside you, holding the red dress against your shoulders, “she mentioned it to me this morning. she said that mr. sargeant is new to the ton, which means he needs a wife who understands how society works, how to navigate the complexities of the peerage. and you—”
“and i need a husband who will not hold my family's disgrace against me.” you finish flatly. “yes, i understand the logic.”
“it is not only logic,” alicia protests. “he genuinely seems to enjoy your company. and you seem to enjoy his. would it be so terrible, to build a life with someone who makes you smile?”
no, you think. it would not be terrible. it would be safe, and comfortable, and probably even happy, in its way. it would just not be—
you cut the thought off before it can complete itself.
“the blue,” you say instead, turning back to the mirror. “i will wear the blue.”
you do not mean to discuss mr. sargeant with lord albon. it simply… happens.
you are in the drawing room, reviewing the invitations that have arrived for the coming week, and he is there as well, reading a book though you have not seen him turn a page in the better part of an hour. the fire crackles in the grate. outside, rain streaks the windows in long grey trails. and somehow, in the quiet domesticity of the moment, you find yourself saying:
“your mother believes mister sargeant intends to make an offer.”
the book in alexander's hands goes very still.
“does she…” he says, and his voice is carefully neutral, so carefully neutral that it circles back around to being obvious.
“she thinks it would be a good match,” you continue, watching his profile, trying to read something, anything, in the set of his jaw, the terse line of his shoulders, “he needs someone who understands english society. i need someone who—”
“who what?” alexander interrupts, and there is an edge to his voice now, “who does not know your history? who can be kept ignorant of the truth until it is too late for him to extricate himself?”
the words land like a slap, and you feel the colour drain from your face. “that is unfair,” you say quietly, “and you are being unkind.”
“you are right,” he says. “forgive me, i should not have said that.”
“no,” you agree, your lips pursing into a thin line, “you should not have.”
“mr. sargeant seems a decent man,” he says finally, and each word sounds as though it is being dragged out of him by force, “i am sure he would make you—” he stops, swallows. “i am sure you would be—”
“happy?” you supply, when he does not continue.
“content. i am sure you would be content.”
content. there is that word again, the ceiling of your ambitions, the highest rung of the ladder you are permitted to climb. you remember saying it yourself, that day in the park. i do not expect love. i would settle for contentment. but hearing it from his mouth, in that hollow voice, with that bleak expression… it sounds different. it sounds like a door closing.
“my lord—” you start, but he is already rising to his feet, already setting aside his unread book, already retreating with that familiar efficiency that you have come to recognize as his primary defense mechanism.
“forgive me. i had forgotten i was to meet mr. russell— george— at the gentleman’s club today,” he says, and he does not meet your eyes. “please excuse me.”
and then he is gone, and you are left alone with the fire and the rain and the growing certainty that something is very, very wrong, something you cannot name and he will not explain and neither of you seems capable of addressing directly.
it is raining again.
london, you have come to understand, exists in a perpetual state of dampness, the sky a low grey ceiling that presses down upon the city like a hand, the cobblestones eternally slick, the air carrying that particular smell of wet stone and coal smoke and something green struggling to grow beneath it all. you have been here long enough now that the rain no longer surprises you, no longer sends you rushing for shelter with the desperate urgency of your first weeks. you have learned to move through it, around it, to accept it as simply another facet of this strange new, temporary life.
this afternoon, the rain has driven everyone indoors, and you have retreated to the small conservatory at the back of the house, a glass-walled room filled with potted ferns and trailing ivy and the particular humid warmth of growing things. it is your favorite space in the albon residence, this little pocket of green amid the grey, and you come here often when you need to think, need to breathe, need to remember that there are living things in the world that do not care about scandal or propriety or the elaborate machinery of the marriage mart.
you are repotting a small orchid, one of of the lady albon’s, slightly neglected, its roots outgrowing their current home, when you hear the door open behind you. you do not turn around.
“i did not realize anyone was in here.” alexander says, and there is a hesitation in his voice, a question beneath the statement: should i leave? do you want me to go?
"”he rain.” you say, by way of explanation, still focused on the orchid, “i find it peaceful, watching it from in here. like being inside a terrarium.”
“a terrarium,” he echoes, and you hear him move further into the room, hear the soft click of the door closing behind him, “i had not thought of it that way.”
“your mother's orchid needed repotting,” you add, “i hope she does not mind. i found it looking rather sad on the windowsill in the morning room, and i thought—”
“she will not mind,” he says. “she will be pleased, actually. she loves that orchid but can never remember to care for it properly. she calls it her 'beautiful failure.'”
“that seems an unkind thing to call a living creature.”
“she means it affectionately. or so she claims.”
you smile despite yourself, and you hear him move close enough now that you can see him from the corner of your eye, leaning against one of the plant stands with his arms crossed over his chest. he is in shirtsleeves, you notice, his coat and waistcoat abandoned somewhere, and the informality of it sends a small shock through your system.
“you are good at that,” he observes, watching your hands work the soil, “the plants. you have a gentle touch.”
“my grandfather's estate had extensive gardens,” you find yourself saying, “i spent a great deal of time in them, growing up. it was—” you pause, considering how much to share, “it was the only place that felt truly mine. the house belonged to my grandfather, and the library belonged to my tutors, and even my own room felt borrowed somehow. but the gardens did not care who my parents were or what they had done. they only cared whether i watered them and gave them enough light.”
“that sounds lonely,” he says quietly.
“it was,” you admit. “but it was also peaceful. i knew what the plants needed from me, and i could provide it, and in return they grew and bloomed and asked nothing more.” you lift one shoulder in a small shrug. “there is something to be said for relationships with clear expectations.”
“i am sorry,” he says, “that you had to learn that lesson so young.”
“we all learn our lessons,” you reply softly, “some of us simply learn them earlier than others.”
you return your attention to the orchid, tamping down the fresh soil around its roots, and for a few minutes there is only the sound of the rain against the glass and the quiet rhythm of your work.
“there,” you say finally, stepping back to survey your work, “she should be much happier now. another few weeks and she may even bloom.”
you reach for the small watering can you had set aside earlier, but your hands are covered in soil, dark earth caught beneath your fingernails and smudged across your palms, and you make a small sound of frustration.
“here,” alex says, and he is beside you suddenly, and he is offering you a handkerchief, plain white cotton, slightly rumpled.
“thank you.” you murmur, and you reach for it without thinking, and your fingers brush against his.
the touch is electric.
you feel it everywhere, sparking up your arm, blooming in your chest. his hand is warm, so warm, and you realize with a start that neither of you are wearing gloves, that this is skin against skin, your soil-stained fingers pressed against his bare palm, and the intimacy of it makes your breath hitch.
you look up. find his eyes already on you.
he is frozen, still as a statue, his lips slightly parted and his pupils blown wide, and you can see the pulse jumping at the base of his throat, can see the way his chest rises and falls with quickened breath. the handkerchief is caught between you, forgotten, and neither of you moves to complete the exchange.
“i—” you start, but you do not know how to finish the sentence, do not know what words could possibly be adequate for this moment.
his thumb moves. just slightly. A barely-there brush against the inside of your wrist, tracing the delicate skin where your pulse beats rapid and frantic, and the sensation is so overwhelming that you actually gasp, a small, soft sound that seems to echo in the humid air of the conservatory.
“forgive me,” he breathes, and his voice is a wreck, raw, barely above a whisper. “i should not— we should not—”
but he does not pull away. and neither do you. you stand there, and you think: this is madness. this is impossible. this is everything i have been trying so hard not to want.
and then a door slams somewhere in the house. voices echo down the corridor, the general commotion of the albon sisters returning from wherever they had been. the spell shatters like glass, reality rushing back in to fill the space between you, and you jerk backward so quickly you nearly knock the freshly potted orchid from its stand.
“i should—” your voice comes out strangled, “i need to— the soil, i should wash—”
“yes,” alex says, and he sounds as shattered as you feel, his hand still extended as though he has forgotten how to lower it. “yes, of course, you should—”
“excuse me,” you manage, and you do not wait for a response, do not look back, simply flee (because there is no other word for it) out of the conservatory and up the stairs and into your room, where you close the door behind you and press your back against it and try very, very hard to remember how to breathe.
your hand is shaking.
you lift it, examine it in the grey afternoon light, the soil still caught beneath your nails, the faint redness where his skin touched yours. you can still feel the ghost of that touch, the warmth of it lingering.
we should not, he had said.
but he had not said i do not want to.
and therein, you think, lies all the difference.
the hamilton ball is a crush.
this is, you have learned, considered a compliment. a crush means the event is successful, well-attended, the sort of gathering that people will speak of for weeks afterward with tones of satisfaction or envy depending on whether they managed to secure an invitation.
you have been at the ball for perhaps an hour, navigating the crowd with zoe and alicia as your guides, making polite conversation with mamas and debutantes, carefully avoiding any corner of the room where alexander might be standing, when mr. sargeant appears at your elbow.
“you look,” he says, and then stops, “forgive me. i had a compliment prepared, something properly poetic, and it has completely fled my mind now that i am actually standing in front of you.”
“that might be the nicest compliment i have ever received,” you tell him honestly, “far better than poetry.”
“then i shall endeavor to remain tongue-tied in your presence,” he says, “may i have the honor of this dance?”
you should hesitate, consider. you should think about what it means, to dance with a man who has been calling on you daily, whose intentions have been made increasingly clear, whose proposal you can feel approaching like a storm on the horizon.
but the music is swelling and his hand is extended and somewhere across the room you can feel alexander's eyes on you like a physical weight, and so you say yes.
you say yes, and you let him lead you onto the floor, and you dance.
and then the dance ends. you curtsy. he bows. and then he looks at you with those clear blue eyes and says: “i know it is forward, and i know it is perhaps more than i should ask, but would you do me the honor of a second dance?”
a second dance?
in the language of the ton, a second dance is not quite a proposal, but close. a second dance says i am serious about you. a second dance says i want everyone in this room to know that my intentions are honorable.
you should refuse. you should demur, claim fatigue, suggest that he partner someone else lest the gossips begin to talk.
“yes,” you say instead, offering your wrist, as he signs your dance card, “i would be honored.”
and so you dance again.
when it ends, he escorts you from the floor with visible reluctance, fetches you a glass of lemonade, and excuses himself to pay his respects to some acquaintance or another with the promise that he will find you again before the evening is out.
you watch him go, and you think: he is going to propose. soon. perhaps even tonight. you do not know how to feel about that.
“that was quite a display.”
the voice comes from behind you, and you do not need to turn around to know who it belongs to.
"lord albon," you say. "i did not see you there."
“evidently not.” alexander says, moving to stand beside you. his jaw is set, his shoulders rigid, and when you glance at him his eyes are fixed on the point in the crowd where mister sargeant has disappeared. “you seemed rather… occupied.”
“i was dancing,” you retort, “that is generally the purpose of a ball.”
“twice.”
very well, then.
“yes,” you agree, because there is no point in pretending otherwise. “twice.”
he is silent for a long moment. when he speaks again, his voice has lost some of its edge, replaced by something that sounds almost like defeat.
“the next dance is a waltz,” he starts, “would you—” he stops, swallows, forces himself to continue. “would you do me the honor?”
you should refuse, should claim that three dances in a row would be too much, claim anything that would allow you to escape this impossible situation without making it worse.
but it seems you have never been good at refusing alexander albon anything.
“yes,” you say softly, “i would.”
the waltz is nothing like your first dance with him, all those weeks ago at the norris ball— this dance is something else entirely, his hand pressing warm and firm against your waist, your bodies closer than they should be, closer than propriety allows.
he does not speak. neither do you. there are no words that would be adequate for this moment, no conversation that could possibly address the tangled mess of wanting and denial and impossible longing that stretches between you like a living thing. so you simply move, let him guide you through the steps, let yourself exist in this single stolen moment where you can pretend that wanting is enough.
his thumb traces a small circle against the curve of your waist, and you feel your breath catch, feel the colour rise in your cheeks.
and then the dance ends, and the world rushes back in, and you are left standing in the middle of the hamiltons’ ballroom with your heart pounding and your hands trembling and the absolute certainty that you are in far, far deeper than you ever intended to be.
mr. sargeant calls the next afternoon.
you know, from the moment you see his face, what he has come to say.
the drawing room feels smaller than usual when he enters, as though the walls have contracted to accommodate the magnitude of what is about to happen. lady albon is seated in her usual chair, her embroidery abandoned in her lap, and the girls are arrayed around the room in various attitudes of forced casualness— zoe by the window, alicia on the settee, chloe curled in the armchair with a book she is very obviously not reading.
alexander is standing by the fireplace.
you do not look at him. you cannot look at him. if you look at him you will lose your nerve entirely, and you cannot afford to lose your nerve right now.
“lady albon,” mr. sargeant says, and his voice is steady despite the slight tremor in his hands, “ladies. lord albon.” he pauses, takes a breath, visibly steels himself, “i wonder if i might have a moment alone with—” he gestures toward you.
the room goes very still.
“of course,” lady albon says, after a moment, “girls, i believe you were planning to review the menus for the house party. alexander, perhaps you could—”
“yes,” alex says, and his voice sounds hollow, scraped clean of emotion, “yes, of course.”
he does not look at you as he leaves.
you do not watch him go.
and then the door closes, and you are alone with mr. sargeant (although lady albon stands as chaperone), and the weight of what is about to happen comes crashing down on you.
“mr. sargeant—”
“logan.” he corrects gently. “please. i think we have moved past formality, you and i.”
you swallow. you nod. “logan.”
“i am asking you to marry me,” logan says, and his voice is steady, certain, the voice of a man who has rehearsed these words a hundred times and means every one of them. “i know i am not what you expected— an american, an outsider, a man still learning what it means to bear a title he never asked for. but i have heard the whispers about your family, and i find that i do not care. i care about you. your kindness, the way you make me feel like i might actually belong in this impossible, impossible country.”
here is everything you should want. and yet…
“mr. sa— logan.” you say, and your voice catches on his name, “i am— i am honored, truly. more than i can say. but i—” you stop, take a breath, try to find words that will not wound him. you glance at lady albon, who has a wary expression on her face, “might i have a few days to consider? this is a significant decision, and i want to be certain that my answer is the right one. for both of us.”
“of course,” he says, “of course you should take time. i would not want you to feel rushed, or pressured. this should be your choice, freely made.”
“thank you for understanding,” you whisper.
“might i ask—” he hesitates, then presses on. “might i ask when i might expect an answer? only so i know whether to hope or—” he attempts a smile, though it does not quite reach his eyes, “or begin preparing my heart for disappointment.”
“the albon ball,” you say. "at mercer hall, in a fortnight. i will give you my answer then.”
his face brightens, “the albon ball,” he repeats, “that is— yes. that is perfect. i will be there. i will be waiting.”
“logan—”
"until mercer hall, then," he says.
"until mercer hall," you agree.
and when you are alone in the drawing room with nothing but your thoughts and the crackle of the fire, you sink onto the settee and press your palms against your eyes and try very, very hard not to think about the other man who left this room without looking at you.
the man whose face you cannot seem to stop seeing, no matter how tightly you close your eyes.
the man who has given you no promises, no declarations, no reason to hope, and yet somehow manages to make every other option feel like settling.
the albon ball, you think.
you have a fortnight to decide the rest of your life.
the first few days in mercer hall pass in a blur of activity.
the ball is to be the event of the season, or so the albon girls have declared. every room in the house is being aired and polished, furniture rearranged, flowers ordered from farther out into the countryside, menus planned and replanned until cook threatens to quit in protest. the girls throw themselves into the preparations with enthusiasm, debating colour schemes and seating arrangements and whether the musicians should be placed in the gallery or the alcove, and you try to help where you can, but—
but they do not necessarily need you. not really. you are a guest here, not a daughter of the house, and there are limits to how much you can contribute to an event that is not yours to host.
so you find yourself with time on your hands, long stretches of afternoon where lady albon and the girls are occupied, and you are left to wander the grounds alone, exploring the gardens and the folly and the library that is indeed three times the size of the one in london.
you are not, strictly speaking, alone.
alexander is everywhere.
or perhaps it only feels that way, perhaps you have simply become so attuned to his presence that you notice him the way sailors notice the north star.
he is in the library when you go to select a book, standing by the window with the light catching in his hair. he is in the garden when you walk the paths, picking rose petals with the focused attention of a man who needs something to do with his hands.
he is at breakfast before you come down and at dinner when you retire, and every time your eyes meet across the table something electric passes between you.
you try to avoid him. you truly do.
but mercer hall is not london, and there are only so many rooms in even a house this size, and somehow you keep finding yourselves in the same spaces at the same times, drawn together by some gravity you cannot name and cannot resist.
you are not prepared for the strawberries.
it is an ordinary tuesday morning, the breakfast room flooded with pale sunlight, the sideboard laden with the usual offerings of eggs and toast and fresh fruit from the hothouse. the girls are bickering amiably about something inconsequential, lady albon is reviewing correspondence, and you are attempting to eat your breakfast like a civilized person.
and then alexander reaches for the bowl of strawberries.
it should not be remarkable. it is not remarkable— just a man selecting fruit from a dish, an action performed by thousands of people every morning across england without incident or comment.
but you watch him lift a strawberry to his lips, and you forget how to breathe.
his fingers are long and elegant, dusted with fine dark hair at the knuckles, and they cradle the fruit with a carefulness that seems almost reverent. he bites into it, and juice glistens on his lower lip, red and obscene against the soft pink of his mouth.
lick it, you think wildly. please, god, lick it—
his tongue darts out to catch the droplet.
you make a sound. a small, strangled noise that you disguise hastily as a cough, reaching for your tea with hands that tremble slightly.
“are you quite all right?” zoe asks, concerned, “you have gone rather flushed.”
“i’m fine!” you manage to choke out, “just… swallowed wrong.”
alexander looks up at you across the table, and for a moment your eyes meet. his expression is innocent, but there is something in the depths of his gaze that makes heat pool low in your belly, something that suggests he knows exactly what effect he is having on you.
he cannot possibly know, you tell yourself. you are being ridiculous. he is simply eating breakfast.
he selects another strawberry. brings it to his lips. bites.
you watch the movement of his jaw as he chews, the way his throat works when he swallows. you watch his tongue sweep across his lower lip, collecting the last traces of sweetness. you watch his fingers— oh god, those long, capable fingers— reach for another piece of fruit, and you imagine them touching other things. touching you.
“the strawberries are excellent this morning,” he says, and his voice is perfectly conversational, perfectly innocent, “would you like one?”
he holds one out toward you across the table.
your hand moves before your brain can intervene, reaching out to accept his offering. your fingers brush against his as you take the fruit (and it is the briefest contact, barely a whisper of skin against skin) but the sensation shoots through you like lightning, making your breath catch audibly.
“thank you,” you manage.
“of course,” his voice is mild, but his eyes are intent on your face, “what are friends for?”
you bite into the strawberry. the sweetness bursts across your tongue, and you are acutely aware of his gaze on your mouth, tracking the movement of your lips, watching you the same way you were watching him moments ago.
friends, you remind yourself desperately. we are friends. this is normal. this is fine.
the strawberry tastes like sin itself.
you find him in the library at midnight.
you had not been able to sleep, and you had crept downstairs in search of a book, something dull enough to bore you into unconsciousness. you had not expected to find the library already occupied, a single lamp burning low in the corner and alexander sprawled in one of the leather armchairs with a glass of something amber in his hand and a look of exhaustion on his face.
“oh,” you say, freezing in the doorway. “i did not realize— i can go—”
“stay.” the word is soft, almost slurred with tiredness, “please. i could use the company.”
you hesitate. it is improper, being alone with him at this hour, in this setting. if anyone found you, the gossip would be catastrophic. but he looks so tired. and there is something in his voice… a loneliness that calls to your own.
“one hour,” you say, moving into the room, “and if anyone asks, i was never here.”
“agreed.” he gestures to the chair across from him. "would you like a drink? the brandy is mediocre, but it does the job."
“i should not.”
“neither should i. and yet—” he raises his glass in a small salute. “desperate times.”
you settle into the offered chair, tucking your feet beneath you, “what has driven you to desperate measures at midnight?”
“estate business. tenant disputes. a letter from my father's former solicitor informing me that there may be additional debts we were not previously aware of,” he takes a long sip of his brandy. “the usual.”
“that sounds overwhelming.”
“it is. but i am learning to manage it,” he sets down his glass, runs a hand through his hair, already disheveled, as though he has been doing this repeatedly, “the worst part is not the problems themselves. it is the constant… aloneness of it. knowing that every decision rests on my shoulders, that there is no one i can turn to for advice or reassurance or even just—” he stops, shakes his head. “forgive me. i should not burden you with this.”
"you are not burdening me." you lean forward slightly. "i asked. i wanted to know."
"why?"
"because i care about you." the words slip out before you can stop them, more honest than you intended. "because you are my friend, and friends do not let friends drink mediocre brandy alone at midnight."
he stares at you for a long moment. then, slowly, a smile spreads across his face—small and tired but genuine.
“friends,” he repeats softly, “yes. i suppose we are.”
“you say that as though it surprises you.”
"it does, a little. i do not—" he pauses, considering. "i do not have many friends. well, i have george and lando, but they are the second sons, they do not… understand. the loneliness of it all. but friends— genuine friends, who understand who i am, who just… know—” he shakes his head. “those are rare.”
“that seems very lonely.”
“it is.” he says it simply, without self-pity. “but i am used to it. i have been alone for a long time, in one way or another.”
“you have your sisters, and luca.”
“i do. and i love them fiercely, desperately. but they are also—” he searches for the word. “—my responsibility. i cannot burden them with my worries. they have already carried enough because of our parents’ choices. i will not add to that weight.”
“so you carry it alone instead.”
“someone has to.”
“that is the second time you have said that. and i am going to tell you again—” you hold his gaze steadily, “—that it is not true. you do not have to carry everything alone. that is not strength, lord albon. that is just stubbornness.”
he laughs, surprised. “did you just call me stubborn?”
“if the shoe fits.”
“it fits,” he admits, “rather well, actually.” he is quiet for a moment, swirling the remaining brandy in his glass, “can i tell you something? something i have never told anyone?”
“of course.”
“sometimes—” he pauses, swallows. “sometimes i am so tired of being the responsible one that i fantasize about simply… walking away. leaving everything behind. getting on a ship and sailing somewhere no one knows my name or my family's history or expects anything of me." another pause. “is that terrible?”
“no,” you say softly. “that is human.”
“it feels like failure, even thinking it.”
“it is not failure to want a different life than the one you were given. it is not failure to feel tired, or overwhelmed, or desperate for something more,” you lean forward, willing him to understand. “my lord, you have spent years holding everything together for other people. you are allowed to want something for yourself.”
"and what would that be?" he asks, and there is something raw in his voice now, something unguarded. “what am i allowed to want?”
you think about the question. really think about it.
“i do not know,” you admit. “but i think—” you pause, choosing your words carefully. “i think you are allowed to want to be seen. not as the heir, or the caretaker, or the man holding everything together. just as yourself. whoever that is.”
he sets down his glass. looks at you with an expression you cannot quite read.
“you see me,” he says quietly. "you are the only person who has ever—” he stops, shakes his head. “i do not know how you do it. how you look at me and see past all the– the duty, the weight of expectation. but you do. you see me. and i—” he stops again. swallows hard. “i do not know how to thank you for that,” he finishes, barely above a whisper.
“you do not have to thank me,” your voice is gentle, “you just have to let me keep doing it.”
the silence between you is different now, and it feels a little like understanding. you should leave. you know you should leave. but you cannot seem to make yourself move.
“tell me something,” he says suddenly, “something about you. something no one else knows.”
you consider. there are so many things you keep hidden: fears and hopes and secret shames that you have never shared with anyone. but here, in the dim light of the library, with this man who has just shown you his own hidden places, it feels safe to offer one of your own. “i am afraid,” you say slowly, “that i am fundamentally unlovable.”
his breath catches.
“not in a dramatic way,” you continue quickly. “not in a– a tragic heroine sort of way. but i think—” you pause, forcing yourself to continue, “i think that everyone who has ever been supposed to love me has found me… lacking, somehow. my parents left me. my grandfather tolerates me. and i have spent so long being the girl with the scandal, the girl who is not quite acceptable, the girl who must be grateful for whatever scraps of affection are thrown her way—” your voice breaks slightly, “i do not know how to believe that anyone could love me for myself. without reservation. without condition.”
“that is—” he stops, shakes his head. “that is the saddest thing i have ever heard.”
“it is not sad. it is just,” you huff, “true.”
“it is not true.” his voice is fierce, suddenly. “it is a lie you have been told so many times you have started to believe it. but it is not true.”
“how would you know?”
“because i see you,” he says simply, “and what i see is not unlovable. what i see is brave and kind and funny and stubborn and so desperately deserving of love that it makes my chest hurt to think you have never had it.”
you stare at him. the tears are pricking at your eyes now, hot and unwelcome.
“i– my lord—”
“i am not saying this to– to make a declaration, or to complicate things,” he says quickly. “i am just saying. you asked what i see, when i look past the armor. and i am telling you. i see someone extraordinary. someone who has survived things that would have broken most people, and come out the other side still capable of kindness, still capable of hope.” he holds your gaze. “you are not unlovable. you never were.”
the tears spill over. you cannot stop them. “i should go,” you manage, rising from your chair, “it is late, and i—”
"of course." he rises too, concern flickering across his face. “i did not mean to upset you—”
“you did not upset me.” you wipe at your cheeks, embarrassed, “you just.. well, no one has ever said anything like that to me before. and i do not know how to—”
“you do not have to do anything.” his voice is gentle, “just… remember it. when the voices in your head tell you otherwise. remember that someone sees you. someone thinks you are extraordinary.”
you nod, not trusting yourself to speak.
and when you slip out of the library and make your way back to your room, you carry his words with you like a chant— brave and kind and funny and stubborn and so desperately deserving of love— and for the first time in longer than you can remember, you allow yourself to wonder if they might be true.
it comes to a head the night before the ball.
the whitmores, a family of considerable wealth and considerably less pedigree with a girl around the same age as alicia, had extended an invitation to dinner that the lady albon could not politely refuse. the girls had been delighted, eager for any distraction from the endless preparations that had consumed the household for weeks, and even chloe had been permitted to attend under the watchful eye of her governess, a rare treat that had sent her into raptures of excitement about gowns and hairstyles and whether she might be allowed to stay for the dancing.
you had begged off.
the headache you claimed was not entirely fabricated; your temples had been throbbing for days, a dull persistent ache that you suspected had less to do with physical ailment and more to do with the impossible choice that loomed before you like a cliff edge. tomorrow night, logan sargeant would be waiting for your answer. tomorrow night, you would have to say yes or no, would have to commit yourself to a path that would determine the entire shape of your future.
and you still did not know what to say.
so when zoe had come to your room to help you dress, you had pressed a hand to your forehead and claimed a headache, and she had tutted sympathetically and promised to make your excuses, and you had watched from your window as the carriage pulled away.
the house is quiet now. emptied of its usual chaos, its constant motion.
you cannot bear it any longer.
you rise from your bed, pull a wrapper over your nightgown, and make your way through the darkened corridors toward minky’s chambers. you need to speak with her, need her counsel, her wisdom, her practical perspective on the choice before you. she has been where you are, after all. she married for position and security and built a life from those foundations, and if anyone can tell you whether such a life can also contain happiness, it is her.
you do not realize your mistake until you have already knocked on the door.
the door you knock upon is not the lady albon’s. standing before you, is alexander.
in a robe. and, from what you can tell, very little else.
his hair is damp and disheveled as though he has recently bathed, and you can see the hollow of his throat where the robe gapes open at the chest, the shadow of collarbone, of the old scar there he had said he had gotten on an incident with george on horseback, the suggestion of skin that you have never seen and should not be seeing now.
you make a sound. you are not certain what sound, though you assume it is something between a gasp and a squeak, something deeply undignified that you will be embarrassed about later when you have the capacity for embarrassment, which you currently do not because all of your faculties have been consumed by the sight of alexander albon in a state of undress that you should absolutely not be witnessing.
“i—” you manage, “this is not— i thought this was—”
“my mother's room is two doors down,” he says, and his voice is strangled, “on the other side of the corridor.”
“i was looking for her,” you say lamely, “i needed—” you shake your head, trying to force your thoughts into some semblance of order. “forgive me. i will go—”
“she is not here.”
you pause, halfway through the motion of retreat. “what?”
"my mother. she had decided last minute on chaperoning the girls at the whitmore dinner. she left with them several hours ago."
the implication settles over you slowly. “so there is no one,” you say carefully. “in the house. except—”
“except the servants,” he confirms. “who have retired for the evening. and you. and me.”
you should leave. every instinct you possess, every lesson you have ever been taught about propriety and self-preservation and the dangers that lurk in dark rooms with handsome men, is screaming at you to shut the door in his face and return to your room and pretend this never happened.
you do not leave.
"i could not sleep," you hear yourself say instead, and the words feel distant, as though someone else is speaking them. "i have been— there is something i must decide. tomorrow. and i cannot seem to—"
“sargeant,” alex says, and it is not a question.
you swallow. “he is expecting an answer at the ball. i told him i would give him one.”
“and what answer will you give?”
“yes.” you say, not quite believing yourself, and you watch his expression shatter, “i am going to tell him yes.”
“he is a good man,” you continue, more so trying to convince yourself than anything else, “he will be kind to me. he will give me a home, a life free from—” your voice catches, “free from all of this. the wanting. the not having. the endless, unbearable hoping for something that will never—”
“don’t.” he says.
“don’t what?” you ask, and your own voice sounds foreign to you, thin and trembling.
“don’t marry him,” alexander takes another step toward you, close enough now that you can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath the silk, close enough that you can smell him, clean soap and something else, something that makes your head spin, or maybe it’s just him, “do not— you cannot—”
“give me a reason,” you say, and it comes out like like a desperate plea, like the last throw of a gambler who has already lost everything. “give me one reason why i should not accept the only man who has offered me a future. give me anything, my lord, because i am so tired of—”
“because i am in love with you.”
you stare at him. he stares back. somewhere outside an owl calls into the darkness, and the world narrows down to just this: this hallway, this moment, this man standing before you with his heart laid bare and his eyes reflecting the flames.
“what?” you whisper.
“i love you.” he says it again, stronger this time, as though now that the dam has broken he cannot stop the flood, “i have loved you since— god, i do not even know when it started. since that first dance, perhaps. since you looked at me across that ballroom and asked me if i was going to ask you to dance. since every moment after, every conversation, every accidental touch that was not accidental at all—”
“you have been avoiding me,” you say, and your voice is shaking, “you have been— you left, every time we were alone, you—”
“because i am a coward.” he laughs, but it holds no humor, “because i was afraid that if i stayed, i would do exactly this. i would tell you the truth and ruin everything— your prospects, your reputation, any chance you have at the respectable life you deserve—”
you do not know who moves first.
perhaps it is him, closing the final distance, his hands coming up to cradle your face with a desperation that steals your breath.
perhaps it is you, surging forward to meet him, your fingers fisting in the silk of his robe as though you might drown if you let go.
perhaps you both move at once, drawn together by the same irresistible gravity that has been pulling at you since that first dance, that first touch, that first moment when you looked across a crowded ballroom and saw him looking back.
it does not matter.
what matters is that his mouth finds yours, and the world ends.
the kiss is not gentle.
it is hungry and urgent and consuming, his mouth slanting over yours with a ferocity that steals your breath and replaces it with fire. he tastes like want, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that makes your knees buckle, and when you make a sound— some desperate whimpering noise that you would be mortified by if you had any capacity left for mortification— he swallows it down and gives you back a groan that vibrates through your entire body.
his hands are everywhere. in your hair, scattering pins across the carpet. at your waist, pulling you against him so tightly you can feel every line of his body through the thin silk of his robe. sliding down to grip your hips, your thighs, lifting you as though you weigh nothing at all.
you wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, clinging to him as he walks you further into the hallway, your back hitting the narrow console table that stands against the wall between two portraits of disapproving ancestors. the wood is cold through your wrapper, a sharp contrast to the heat of him pressed against your front, and when he steps between your thighs and pins you there with his body you hear yourself moan, loud and shameless in the empty corridor.
this is not the alexander you thought you knew. the flustered, awkward, blushing man who could barely meet your eyes across the breakfast table has vanished entirely, replaced by someone confident and utterly without hesitation. he kisses you like he is trying to memorize the taste of you, his teeth catching your lower lip, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth, his breath coming in harsh pants against your skin when he breaks away to trail his lips down your throat.
“alex,” you gasp, and his hips jerk against yours at the sound of his name, a reflexive motion that drags a groan from both of you.
“say it again,” he murmurs against the pulse point beneath your jaw, “god, please, say it again—”
“alex—”
his hand finds the hem of your nightgown. slides beneath it. the touch of his palm against your bare calf makes you shudder, makes your fingers clench in the fabric of his robe, makes you forget every reason why this is madness and remember only the wanting, the endless desperate wanting that has been building in you for months.
his hand drifts higher. past your knee, along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and you feel him hesitate there, feel the tremor in his fingers, the sudden tension in his body. he is waiting, you realize. he is waiting for you to stop him, to come to your senses.
you reach down and find his hand where it rests against your thigh.
and you guide it higher.
his breath catches. his forehead drops to rest against yours, his eyes squeezing shut, and when you shift your hips to press yourself more firmly into his touch, arch forward against his fingers, he makes a sound that is as desperate as a sob, the same time another moan is drawn out from your lips.
“please,” you whimper, and you do not entirely know what you are asking for, only that you need more, need him, need this moment to never end—
the front door opens.
voices flood the entrance hall below, the general commotion of arrival and the removal of wraps and the exchange of evening pleasantries. they are back. they are back early, hours before they should be, and you are sitting on a table in the hallway with alexander's hand under your nightgown and his mouth on your throat and absolutely no way to explain any of this.
alex pulls away from you like he has been burned.
he staggers back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and when you see his face in the dim light of the wall sconces his expression is absolutely horrified.
“forgive me,” he says, and his voice is wrecked, shattered into pieces. “god, forgive me, i should not have— i am a gentleman, i should never have—”
“alex—” you start, sliding off the table on legs that shake so badly you have to grip the edge of it for support.
“this was unconscionable!” he is backing away from you, one hand raised as though to ward you off, his robe askew and his hair wild and his chest heaving with uneven breaths. “you are a guest in my home. under my family's protection. and i— i took advantage—”
“you did not take advantage of anything!” you say fiercely, taking a step toward him. “alex, i wanted—”
“it does not matter what you wanted.” his voice cracks on the words. “it matters what i should have done. what i failed to do. a gentleman does not—” he stops, shakes his head violently. “i am sorry. i am so sorry. this was— there is no excuse. none.”
“will you stop apologizing and listen to me—”
“i cannot.” he has reached his door now, his hand fumbling for the handle behind him. “i cannot— if i stay here, if i listen to you, i will—” another violent shake of his head. “i am sorry. forgive me. please, just forgive me.”
“alex.”
"goodnight," he says with finality, and the door closes between you.
the ballroom is magnificent.
the albons have outdone themselves. the room glows with the light of a thousand candles, flowers cascading from every surface, their perfume mixing with the scent of champagne and celebration. the orchestra plays from the gallery above. by all intents and purposes, it is a crush of a ball.
you stand at the edge of it all and feel nothing.
or perhaps you feel too much. so much so that it has circled back around to numbness. you smile when you are supposed to smile, you make conversation when conversation is required. and—
and you watch alexander across the room, handsome in dark evening clothes, his expression carefully pleasant and his posture carefully relaxed, and you note the way his eyes slide past you without ever quite landing, the way he angles his body away whenever you draw near, the way he has constructed a fortress of social obligation around himself that you could not breach even if you tried.
you do not try.
logan sargeant arrives halfway through the evening, his face bright with anticipation, his eyes finding you across the crowd, eager and hopeful. he makes his way toward where you and lady albon are standing, weaving through the press of bodies, and when he reaches your side his smile is so hopeful, so earnest, so completely unaware of what you are about to do to him that you have to look away.
“lady albon,” he says, his voice carefully steady. “might i request a private audience? i believe there is a sitting room nearby—”
“of course.” lady albon nods, her expression composed, eyes knowing, “this way, mr. sargeant.”
the sitting room is small and quiet, the noise of the ball muffled by thick walls and closed doors. lady albon positions herself near the window, and logan stands before you with his hands clasped behind his back and his jaw set and his eyes still, somehow, full of hope.
“i promised you an answer,” you say, because someone has to speak first, because the silence is unbearable.
“you did.” he swallows. “and i promised i would accept it, whatever it was. i meant that. i still mean it.”
you look at him, look at this good man, this kind man, this man who has offered you everything you once thought you wanted, and you feel your heart break for him, for the hope you are about to crush, for the future you might have had if you were capable of wanting what was wise instead of what was impossible.
“i cannot marry you,” you say.
the entire room stills.
logan does not move. does not speak. simply stands there, absorbing the blow, and you watch the hope drain from his eyes, watch it replaced by confusion, by hurt, by the desperate grasping of a man trying to understand where he went wrong.
“may i ask why?” his voice shakes, “if there is something i have done, something i have failed to do—”
“you have done nothing wrong!” the words come out thick, clogged with the tears you are fighting to hold back, “you have been— god, you have been perfect. kind and patient and everything i should want. but i—” your voice breaks, “i cannot give you what you deserve. i cannot give you a wife whose heart is wholly yours. and you deserve that, logan. you deserve someone who loves you, not someone who is settling for safety because she is too afraid to—” you stop. you cannot finish that sentence. you cannot admit, even now, even to him, what you are too afraid to reach for.
“there is someone else.” he says quietly, and it is not a question.
you do not answer. you do not need to.
“i see.” he is silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on some point past your shoulder. then he takes a breath, squares his shoulders, “then i hope he knows how fortunate he is. and i hope” his voice wavers, “i hope he deserves you. because you deserve the world, and i would hate to think you gave up something good for someone who cannot see that.”
“logan— mr. sargeant—”
“no, please.” he holds up a hand, “do not apologize. you have done nothing wrong. you were honest with me, and that is— that is all i could ask.” he bows, “i wish you every happiness. truly.”
he leaves.
the door closes behind him, and you stand in the silence of the sitting room with your hands shaking and your eyes burning and the weight of what you have done pressing down on your chest like it’s a physical thing.
“my dear,” lady says softly, crossing to your side, “are you—”
“i need a moment,” you manage. “please. i just need— i need air, i need to—”
you do not wait for her response. you turn and flee out of the sitting room and down the corridor, away from the light and noise of the ballroom, toward the quiet darkness of the residential wing where you might find a moment's peace to fall apart.
you make it perhaps twenty steps before you collide with someone.
the impact sends you stumbling backward, and hands come up to catch your arms, to steady you, and you look up into alexander's face and feel something inside you simply snap.
“let go of me!” you say, and your voice comes out sharp.
“are you—” he starts, and then his eyes find the tears tracking down your cheeks and his expression shifts, “what happened? what is wrong?”
“what is wrong?” you repeat, incredulous, and the laugh that escapes you is jagged and bitter. “what is wrong? you are asking me what is wrong? you?”
“i do not understand—”
“i just refused the only man who was willing to marry me!” you spit, wrenching your arms from his grip, “i just destroyed my only prospect, my only chance at a respectable future, because i was foolish enough to think—” you stop, shake your head violently. “and you dare ask me what is wrong?”
understanding dawns in his eyes, “sargeant. you told him no.”
“yes, i told him no!” your voice is rising, you cannot seem to control it, “i told him no because of you, because you kissed me and told me you loved me and then you left, you apologized and retreated and today you could not even look at me—”
“was trying to give you space,” he reasons, “i was trying to make it easier for you to—”
“to what? to accept another man's proposal with the taste of you still on my lips?” the tears are falling freely now, hot and angry on your cheeks, “you are a coward, alexander albon. you tell me you love me and then you run away. you kiss me like i am the only thing that matters and then you apologize for it like it was a mistake, like i was a mistake—”
“you were never a mistake,” he says fiercely, “never, not for a single moment—”
“then why?” you demand, “why do you not want to marry me? if you love me as you claim, if i am not a mistake, then why—”
“because i have never intended to marry!” the words seem to tear themselves from his throat against his will, “i cannot marry, do you not understand? there is too much scandal attached to my name, and even if the whispers have quieted, even if the debts have been paid, there is still too much— i am the heir to a family in disgrace, and anyone i marry will inherit that disgrace alongside me. i could not ask that of anyone. i will not ask it of you.”
you stare at him.
“scandal.” you repeat flatly. “you will not marry me because of scandal?”
“it is not that simple—”
“i have scandal too!” the words explode from you, “does that not register to you? my mother ran off with my father's business partner and left me to bear the weight of her shame. i do not– i do not even know where my father is, or if he is even alive! i was sent away at twelve years old, hidden in the countryside like something shameful, and i have spent the last eleven years being whispered about and pitied and judge, and you stand there and tell me that your scandal is too great to overcome?”
"it is different—”
“it is not different!” you are shouting now, you cannot stop yourself, “it is exactly the same. we are both carrying weights we did not choose, both paying for sins we did not commit, and the only difference is that i was willing to take a chance on something more and you are too frightened to even try.”
he flinches as though you have struck him.
“you are a coward," you say, quieter now, the anger draining out of you and leaving only exhaustion in its wake, “a coward, alexander albon. and i was a fool to think you might be brave enough to—”
you stop. shake your head. there is nothing left to say.
“please,” he says, and he reaches for you, his hand hovering near your face like he wants to wipe away your tears, “please, just let me—”
you pull away before he can touch you.
“goodnight, lord albon,” you say, and your voice sounds dead, hollow, “i hope you find peace with your choices. i am sure i will eventually find peace with mine.”
you leave him standing in the corridor and you do not look back.
you wake the next morning with a fever.
at first you think it is simply the aftermath of too much crying, too little sleep, the accumulated stress of the season finally taking its toll. but when you try to rise from your bed your head spins violently, and when zoe comes to check on you she takes one look at your face and immediately calls for the physician.
what follows is a blur of cold compresses and bitter tonics and the concerned faces of the albon sisters swimming in and out of focus above you. you are vaguely aware of hushed conversations happening just outside your door (“she is very ill, the fever will not break, we must send for—”) but you cannot summon the energy to care. the fever wraps around you like a shroud, hot and suffocating, and you drift in and out of consciousness without any clear sense of how much time is passing.
the albon sisters take turns sitting with you, reading to you, pressing a wet rag to your forehead to alleviate the spinning in your head.
they know, you realize dimly. they know about the proposal, about your refusal. they do not know the whole truth, but they know enough. they know that their brother has done something, or failed to do something, and they know that you are paying the price.
they do not speak of it directly. but you hear it in the careful way they avoid mentioning alexander's name, in the pointed silences that fall whenever he is discussed, in the way zoe's jaw tightens and alicia's eyes go hard and even sweet chloe develops a furrow between her brows that speaks to anger suppressed for the sake of your recovery.
days pass. perhaps a week. perhaps more. time loses meaning when you are trapped in the fog of fever, and you stop trying to track it.
when you finally emerge, pale and shaky and thin in a way that makes the girls cluck with concern, the season is about to end.
the families are beginning to retreat from london, or the early ones at least, those who have already done what they were supposed to do, returning to their country estates or departing for the continent, and the social whirl that consumed your life for the past months is winding down to a quiet close. you have missed balls and dinners and the final flurries of matchmaking, have been absent for the announcements of engagements and the whispered gossip about who succeeded and who failed in the great marriage mart of the season.
you have failed. this is clear without anyone needing to say it.
one season. that was all you had. one chance to secure your future, to find a husband who would give you stability and respectability and a life beyond the confines of your grandfather's countryside estate or a governess position. and you squandered it. refused the one man who offered, and for what? for a declaration of love that came with no proposal attached. for a kiss in a hallway that ended in apology and retreat. for a man who could not even bring himself to fight for you.
the girls are gentle with you, in those final days at mercer hall. they do not press you to talk about what happened, do not ask questions you have no answers for. they simply are present and warm in their support, and you love them for it even as you hate yourself for becoming a burden on their family.
“what will you do?” zoe asks quietly, the night before you are all to depart for london, “after the season ends. where will you go?”
the question you have been dreading.
“my grandfather's estate, i suppose,” you say, and your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears, “for a time. but i cannot stay there forever. i will need to find a position. a governess, perhaps, for some merchant family who does not care about my family's scandal so long as i can teach their children french and etiquette.”
zoe's face crumples. “no,” she says fiercely, “no, you cannot— there must be another way, there must be something—”
“there is nothing.” you take her hand, squeeze it gently, “oh, my darling girl, i had my chance. i made my choice. now i must live with the consequences.”
“the consequences of my brother being a fool—”
“the consequences of my own heart being foolish,” you correct, “i do not blame him, alexander. not entirely. he told me the truth about himself, and i chose to hope for something different. that is not his fault. it is simply—” you pause, searching for the word, “it is simply tragedy.”
zoe pulls you into an embrace so tight it borders on painful, and you let her hold you, let yourself be held, and you try not to think about how few of these moments you have left.
the return to london is subdued.
the carriage ride passes in near-silence, the girls too aware of your fragile state to fill the hours with their usual chatter. you watch the countryside roll past the window, the green fields giving way to the grey sprawl of the city, and you think about endings. about doors closing. about the person you were when you arrived in london all those weeks ago, full of tentative hope and desperate longing, and the person you have become in the aftermath of everything that followed.
you are stronger, perhaps. harder. less willing to believe in fairy tales and happy endings.
you are not sure this is an improvement.
the townhouse feels different now. smaller, somehow, as though it has contracted during your absence to accommodate the diminished scope of your future. you go through the motions of settling back in, unpacking your things, resuming the rhythms of daily life, but everything feels muted, faded.
and you avoid alexander.
this is easier than you expected, because he seems to be avoiding you too. you catch glimpses of him sometimes, a figure disappearing around a corner, a voice in the next room that falls silent when you approach, but you do not seek him out, and he does not seek you. the vast machinery of the albon household continues to turn, and you and he are parallel lines, careful to never collide.
the girls notice. of course they notice. but they do not comment, perhaps sensing that whatever fragile peace you have constructed would shatter at the first pointed question.
the season ends. the announcements are made. and you begin, quietly, to prepare for the life that awaits you— the letters to governesses' agencies, the inquiries about positions, the slow dimming of every dream you once allowed yourself to hold.
this is how it ends, you think.
not with love, but with the memory of love. fading, like everything else, into the grey.
the morning light filters through the glass walls of the conservatory in pale golden streams, catching the dust that drift lazily through the humid air, and you pause in the doorway to breathe it in, the green smell of growing things, the warmth that wraps around you like an embrace, the stillness of it all.
you had not expected to find anyone here.
you had not expected to find him.
alexander stands with his back to you, a watering can in hand, his attention fixed on the orchid that sits on the small table by the window— your orchid, the one you rescued from neglect all those weeks ago, the one whose roots you carefully untangled and repotted and coaxed back toward health. he is pouring water into the pot with a steadiness that might be admirable if it were not so thoroughly, catastrophically wrong.
“stop,” you say, before you can think better of it, “stop, you are drowning it.”
he startles badly enough that water sloshes over the rim of the watering can, and when he turns to face you his expression cycles rapidly through surprise, guilt, and something that looks almost like relief.
“i did not hear you come in,” he says.
“the orchid.” you move into the room despite yourself, despite the voice in your head screaming at you to leave, “you are overwatering it. orchids do not like wet feet. you need to let the soil dry out completely between waterings, or the roots will rot.”
he looks down at the pot, at the water pooling on the surface, and his expression shifts to something almost comically dismayed. “i did not– i was trying to—” he stops, sets down the watering can with exaggerated care, “my mother asked me to tend to the plants while she was out. i thought i was helping.”
“you thought wrong.” you cross to the orchid, assess the damage. it is not too bad, the soil is waterlogged but not yet sour, and if you tip the pot to let the excess drain the roots should survive. “here. tip it gently and let the water run out. then do not touch it again for at least a week.”
he does as instructed, his movements careful, almost reverent, and you watch his hands— those hands that have touched you, held you, mapped the geography of your skin in the darkness of a hallway— and you force yourself to feel nothing.
you have become very good at feeling nothing.
“there,” you say, when the last of the excess water has drained, “it should survive, as long as no one attempts to water it again for at least a week. possibly two.”
“i will inform the household staff,” he says, “perhaps post a sign. do not water the orchid upon pain of death.”
“that seems excessive.”
“you just called me a plant murderer. i feel the punishment should fit the crime.”
something flickers at the corner of your mouth, and it is not quite a smile, but close. you suppress it ruthlessly.
“i should go,” you say, straightening, “i have letters to write.”
“letters?”
“to the governesses' agency,” you say it matter-of-factly, “they have requested references and a list of my accomplishments. apparently there is a merchant family in bristol looking for someone to teach their daughters. the pay is reasonable and the position comes with room and board.”
the silence that follows is so complete you can hear the faint drip of water from the orchid's saucer, the distant tick of a clock somewhere in the house, the soft rustle of leaves in the artificial breeze created by the warmth of the glass walls.
“a governess.” alexander says finally.
“it is respectable work.” you keep your tone light, “and i am not without qualifications. my french is excellent, my italian passable, and i can play the pianoforte well enough to teach the basics. it is not what i imagined for myself, perhaps, but—” you shrug, “one must be practical. the season is ending, and i have no other prospects.”
“because of me.”
“because of circumstances.” you meet his eyes, finally, and you are proud of how steady your gaze remains, “i made my choices, alexander. i do not regret them. i only—” you pause, “i am ready to move forward. that is all. i have made my peace with what happened, and now i would like to begin whatever comes next.”
“and what comes next is… bristol? teaching merchant's daughters to play mozart on the pianoforte?”
“if they will have me. there are other positions, if that one does not work out. i am told there is always demand for governesses with good references.” you smile, and it feels almost natural, “your mother has agreed to write me a letter. she has been very kind throughout all of this. your whole family has been kind.”
“kind.” he repeats.
“yes. kind. generous. more than i had any right to expect, given—” you gesture vaguely, encompassing the conservatory, the house, everything that has passed between you, “given everything.”
another silence. longer this time, weighted with something you cannot name.
“i should go,” you say again, and you turn toward the door.
“wait.” his hand catches your elbow. you go still. “please,” he says, and his voice has changed, become something raw and urgent, “please, just… give me a moment. there is something i need to say, and i have been trying to find the words for days, and if you leave now i am afraid i will never—”
he stops. swallows. his hand falls away from your arm, and when you turn to face him he looks—
he looks wrecked.
there is no other word for it. the careful composure he has worn like armor since mercer hall has cracked, fallen away, leaving something exposed and vulnerable underneath. his eyes are bright, and his hands are trembling slightly at his sides, and he looks at you like you are something irreplaceable, something he is terrified of losing.
“i have been a coward,” he says quietly. “you told me so, the night of the ball, and you were right. i have been a coward my entire life, hiding behind duty and responsibility and the convenient excuse of my family's scandal to avoid ever taking a real risk, ever reaching for something i truly wanted.”
“alexander—”
“let me finish. please.” he pleads, takes a breath, steadies himself, “my father was a coward too. that is the thing i never told you, the thing i have never told anyone. he ran. when things became difficult, when the consequences of bad choices started closing in, he ran to the country and left my mother to face the creditors, the whispers he told himself he was protecting us by staying away, but he was only protecting himself. from shame. from failure. from having to look at the wreckage he had created.”
his voice cracks slightly on the last words, and you see him struggle to compose himself before continuing: “i swore i would never be like him. i swore i would be better, that i would stronger, more reliable, the kind of man who faces his problems instead of fleeing from them. and for years i thought i had succeeded. i managed the estates. i paid the debts. i held our family together through sheer force of will. but then you arrived, and i realized—”
he stops. laughs, a small broken sound, “i realized i had only been brave about things that did not truly matter to me. the estates, the debts, our reputation, those were problems to be solved, challenges to be overcome. i could be strong about them because losing them would not have destroyed me. but you—” his eyes find yours, “the thought of loving you and losing you. the thought of reaching for happiness and watching it slip through my fingers. that terrified me in a way nothing else ever has.”
“so you pushed me away,” you say softly.
“so i pushed you away.” he nods, a jerky motion, “i told myself i was protecting you. from the scandal, from being dragged down into the mess of my life. but i was only protecting myself. from the possibility of not being enough. from the certainty that i would eventually disappoint you, fail you, become the thing you regretted instead of the thing you chose.”
“alex—”
“i watched you dance with sargeant,” he continues, “at the balls. i watched him hold you, look at you, offer you everything i was too frightened to offer myself. and i told myself it was for the best. i told myself you would be happier with him, that he could give you the uncomplicated life you deserved,” his jaw tightens, “and then you refused him. you refused him, and i knew— i knew— it was because of me. because i had made you hope for something i was too cowardly to give.”
“i refused him because i did not love him,” you say quietly, “that is not your fault. that is simply—”
“it is my fault,” he interrupts fiercely, “because if i had been braver, if i had spoken sooner, you would not have had to choose between a man you did not love and a future alone. you would have had a third option.”
“and now?” you ask, “what are you offering now, alex? because i have spent weeks thinking about this. about you, about us, about what might have been, and i cannot do it anymore! i cannot keep hoping for something that you are too afraid to give me!”
“i know,” he moves toward you, “i know, and i am sorry. i am so sorry for every moment of confusion and pain i have caused you. but i am here now, and i am trying to tell you—” he stops, close enough to touch but not touching, “i am trying to tell you that i do not want to be afraid anymore.”
your heart is beating so hard you can feel it in your throat. “what does that mean?”
“it means—” he takes a breath “it means that i have spent the last week thinking about my life without you in it. about watching you leave for bristol, knowing that i let you go because i was too frightened to ask you to stay. about growing old in this house, surrounded by my family's ghosts, always wondering what might have been if i had just been brave enough—”
his voice breaks. he closes his eyes for a moment, composing himself, and when he opens them again they are bright with unshed tears.
“i cannot do it,” he says simply, “i cannot let you go. i have tried to talk myself into it, tried to convince myself that it would be better for you, easier for you, that i would only drag you down— but i cannot. because being without you these past days has been—” he shakes his head. “it has been like living in a world without color. like breathing air that does not quite fill my lungs. like being only half alive and not understanding why until i remember that you are not there.”
"alex—"
“i believe i am my best self when i am with you.” the words come out in a rush, tumbling over each other, “my truest self. the person i always hoped i might become but never quite managed to be on my own. you make me want to be better, to be braver, kinder, more open. you make me want to stop hiding behind walls and actually live. and i know i have given you no reason to believe me, i know i have done everything wrong, but if you could just— if you could give me one more chance—”
“what are you saying?” you whisper, and your voice trembles despite your best efforts. “alex, what does this mean?”
he holds your gaze for a long moment. and then, slowly, deliberately, he sinks to one knee. the breath leaves your body in a rush.
“i am asking you to marry me,” he says, and his voice is steady now, clear and certain, “i do not have a ring— i should have a ring, i know that, this should be done properly with flowers and moonlight and all the romantic trappings, but i cannot wait another moment, i cannot let you walk out that door thinking that you are destined for bristol and merchant's daughters when you could be… when you should be—”
he stops. takes a breath. “i am asking you to be my wife,” he says simply. “i am going down on one knee, in this ridiculous conservatory, surrounded by plants i nearly murdered, and i am asking you properly. because i love you. because i have loved you since the first moment i saw you across that ballroom. because i do not want to be afraid anymore, and being with you makes me feel like i might finally be brave enough to reach for what i want.”
the tears are streaming down your face. you cannot seem to stop them. “this is absurd,” you manage, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “you are absurd. this entire situation is—”
“absurd, yes,” he agrees, and there is a hint of his old humor in his voice, that dry self-deprecating wit that you have come to love. “also terrifying. also the most important thing i have ever done.” he reaches up, takes your hand in his, and his fingers are trembling slightly but his grip is sure, “say yes. please. say yes and let me spend the rest of my life trying to deserve you.”
you look down at him, at this man who has caused you so much pain and so much joy, who has pushed you away and pulled you close, who has been the source of your greatest hope and your deepest despair. you look at his face, open and vulnerable and desperately, achingly hopeful, and you think about all the reasons you should refuse. the scandal, the uncertainty, the months of heartache that led to this moment…
… and then you think about the alternative. bristol. merchants’ daughters. a life of quiet respectability, safe and stable and utterly devoid of this— this feeling that burns in your chest whenever he is near, this sense that you are finally, finally exactly where you are meant to be.
“yes,” you say, and your voice breaks on the word, “yes, you impossible, infuriating, wonderful man. yes, i will marry you.”
the smile that breaks across his face is like sunrise, it bright and warm and so full of joy that it takes your breath away. he rises in a single fluid motion, pulling you into his arms, and when his mouth finds yours it is not like the desperate, hungry kisses of before. it is soft and tender, the kiss of a man who finally has everything he wants and cannot quite believe his good fortune.
“i love you,” he murmurs against your lips. “i have loved you for so long, and i was too afraid to say it, and i am so sorry.”
“say it again,” you demand, pulling back just far enough to see his face, “say it again, and keep saying it, until i believe you mean it.”
“i love you,” he says obediently. “i love you, i love you, i love you—”
and he keeps saying it, between kisses and laughter and the joyful tears that neither of you can seem to stop shedding, until the words blur together and lose their meaning and become simply a sound, a vibration, a truth that hums beneath your skin like music.
in the corner, the orchid stands silent witness to it all— still damp, still slightly waterlogged, but alive. surviving. reaching toward the light.
Drivers that i will be writing for are : MV3, GR63, KA12, AA23, LN1, CL16, OP81, CS55, OB87 (for now!)
📎 Max Verstappen. . .
→ (coming soon 🏁 !)
📎 George Russell. . .
→ (coming soon 🏁 !)
📎 Kimi Antonelli. . .
Begin Again
Summary : Three devastating years you have spent your life being free from the stress of your previous toxic relationship. You're forever thankful that your brother George Russell had nagged you to leave the guy that you were dating after he found out how absolutely verbally toxic he was to you. Now as a newly fresh bachelor student you had swore and promised to focus on yourself first before falling back into the hole of love..that is until you meet your brother's teammate <3.
📎 Alex Albon. . .
→ (coming soon 🏁 !)
📎 Lando Norriss. . .
→ (coming soon 🏁 !)
📎 Charles Leclerc. . .
→ (coming soon 🏁 !)
📎 Oscar Piastri. . .
→ (coming soon 🏁 !)
📎 Carlos Sainz. . .
→ (coming soon 🏁 !)
📎 Ollie Bearman. . .
→ (coming soon 🏁 !)
A/N : I'll be updating on which driver I will be able to write for depends on how much information I know about them and how comfortable I am on writing about them, enjoy some of my available fics first! xx.
Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Female reader
Word count: 7.8k
Summary: After being broken up with, you want nothing more than to get back at your ex. Oscar seems to be the right solution to that, maybe even more...
Tags: College AU!, Hockey AU!, 18+ content, smut, fingering, handjob, intercourse, size kink, soft dom! oscar...
The party is the kind of loud that presses in on you from all sides. Music thumps through the walls, people shouting conversations into each other’s ears, red cups raised and refilled and forgotten. Someone bumps into you and barely apologizes. The air smells like alcohol and sweat and too many people trying not to think.
You wish you hadn’t come. Across the room, you see him again. Your ex.
He’s leaning against the counter like he owns the place, one arm around a girl you’ve never seen before, her laugh too bright, too eager. His hand is already resting at her lower back, fingers splayed like muscle memory.
It’s been a week. Seven days since he told you he “wasn’t in the right place,” since he walked out with an apology that felt rehearsed. Seven days since Oscar sat with you on your bedroom floor while you cried, quiet and solid and furious on your behalf in that restrained way of his. And now this.
Your ex looks over. His eyes linger, slow and deliberate, before he turns back to the girl like he wants you to see it. Like he wants to make sure it lands. Your chest tightens.
“God,” you mutter. “Of course.”
Beside you, Oscar shifts immediately. He hasn’t been watching the room. He’s been watching you.
“What?” he asks softly. “What happened?”
You shake your head, taking a sip of your drink that tastes like regret. “Nothing. He’s just… being him.”
Oscar follows your gaze, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. When he looks back at you, his voice is calm, but there’s something careful under it.
“We can leave,” he says. “Seriously. I don’t care.”
“I don’t want to,” you reply, more sharply than you mean to. Then you sigh. “I don’t want him to think he still gets to ruin my night.”
Oscar nods. “Okay.”
Another beat passes. Your ex laughs again, louder this time, the girl’s hand sliding up his chest. He glances over at you like he’s checking whether you’re watching. You feel it then, the spike of something bitter and reckless.
“I wish,” you say suddenly, words spilling out before you can stop them, “I could just go kiss some hot guy and make him jealous.”
Oscar blinks. “Okay.”
You laugh, hollow. “I know. It’s stupid.”
“It’s not,” he says gently.
You keep going, venting now, the frustration pouring out. “I know it wouldn’t fix anything. I just, I hate that he gets to move on like I meant nothing.”
You finally look at Oscar. He’s listening the way he always does. Fully. Like every word matters.
“Well,” he says carefully, a tiny hint of humor threading through his voice, “I might not be the hottest guy here.”
You snort. “Oscar.”
“But,” he continues, shrugging slightly, “I think I do okay.”
You stare at him.
“And,” he adds, meeting your eyes now, “I offer myself. If you want.”
Your heart stumbles.
“You’re serious,” you say.
He nods. “Yeah.”
“You’d just… help me make him jealous?”
“Yes.”
“That’s it?” you press. “No expectations?”
“No expectations,” he repeats softly.
What you don’t know, what you couldn’t possibly know, is that Oscar has wanted you for so long it’s stopped feeling sharp and started feeling constant. A low ache. A background hum.
He’s memorized the way you laugh when you’re tired. The way you get quiet when you’re hurting. He knows how you take your coffee, how you sit too close when you trust someone.
And he’s learned how to want you quietly. How to take the smallest moments, sitting beside you, brushing hands, being the person you lean on, and make them enough.
Crumbs, if that’s all you’re offering. He’ll take them.
“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly.
You don’t. You step closer.
You’re aware of him in a way that feels suddenly new: how tall he is, how solid, how calm. How his attention doesn’t wander even for a second. It’s all on you. Has always been on you, you realize dimly, and the thought makes something ache low in your chest.
When you kiss him, it isn’t rushed. It’s tentative at first. Careful.
And then, unexpectedly, Oscar’s hands come up to your face. Both of them. Warm palms, thumbs brushing your cheeks like he’s grounding you, like he wants you to feel how real this is. The touch alone makes your breath hitch. No one’s ever kissed you like this, like you’re something precious, something worth holding steady. Your mind goes blank.
There’s no thought of your ex. No thought of the room. No strategy anymore. Just Oscar.
His mouth is warm and unhurried, moving against yours like he’s been wanting this for far longer than he’ll ever admit. There’s restraint in it, he isn’t taking, he’s waiting, and somehow that makes it worse. Better.
Oh, you think distantly. That’s… not fair.
Your fingers curl into his hoodie without you meaning to, like your body knows where it wants to be even if your head hasn’t caught up yet. You lean into him, and the second you do, one of his hands slides down, slow, deliberate, to your waist.
The contact sends a jolt straight through you, a familiar heat settling low in your belly. You melt. There’s no other word for it.
Your knees feel weak, your chest warm and tight, and you’re suddenly aware that you’re kissing him back just as deeply, just as desperately, like you forgot this was supposed to be a performance.
You don’t check the room. You don’t check if your ex is watching. You don’t care.
All you can think is why does this feel so right and why has no one ever kissed me like this before and oh god, I want—
Oscar exhales softly against your mouth, a quiet sound that feels like relief and longing all tangled together. For him, this isn't a new desire, it’s familiar. Something he’s been carrying quietly, carefully, for a long time.
If this is all you give him, he’ll take it.
Your lips part instinctively, and you feel him tense, not pulling away, not rushing forward either. Just… holding the moment.
Then, gently, deliberately, he stops. Not abruptly. Not coldly.
He rests his forehead against yours, breath warm, hands still steady at your waist like he needs the contact even as he pauses.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
You blink, dazed, heart racing, still leaning into him like you forgot how to step back.
“Do you think… this is enough?” he asks quietly. “Or do you want me to keep pretending?”
The question lands hard. Because you had been about to kiss him again.
“Oh,” you say, cheeks burning, suddenly very aware of yourself. “Uh— yeah. Yeah, this is—this is enough.” You laugh weakly, trying to gather yourself. “Totally worked. Very effective. Mission accomplished.”
Oscar nods immediately, stepping back just a fraction, giving you space even though you can see the effort it takes.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Just wanted to make sure.”
You take a breath. Then another. Your heart is still pounding, your skin buzzing where he touched you, your thoughts tangled in a way you don’t want to examine too closely.
“Thanks,” you add quickly, forcing casual into your voice. “For helping me out.”
“Anytime,” he replies, just as easily.
You stand beside him again, pretending the world hasn’t shifted. Inside, though, something has changed. And you don’t know what scares you more, that you didn’t do this for revenge anymore or that you didn’t want him to stop.
Lizzie doesn’t even pretend to study. She stares at you over the rim of her iced coffee for a solid ten seconds, eyes narrowed like she’s piecing together a conspiracy.
“…So,” she says slowly. “Since when are you and Oscar Piastri a thing?”
You choke on air. “We’re not.”
She snorts. “Babe.”
“I’m serious.”
“Mhm,” she hums, leaning back in her chair. “Because from where I’m sitting, you made out with him at a party like you were auditioning for a porn movie.”
You bury your face in your hands. “It was a situational kiss.”
“A situational kiss,” she repeats. “With hands. On your waist.”
You peek at her. “You noticed that?”
“I noticed everything,” she says smugly. “Including the way you looked like you forgot how to stand upright.”
“I’m not,” you protest weakly. “It’s just— I can’t stop thinking about him.”
“Of course you can’t,” she says. “Have you seen him?”
You groan again. “Lizzie—”
“Have you seen his back?” she presses. “Those shoulders? Those biceps? I just know he’s packing something bi-”
“LIZZIE,” you hiss, looking around frantically.
She laughs. “Relax. This is a library, not a church.”
You drop your voice. “You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re into him,” she shoots back. “Which means my work here is done.”
You sigh, rubbing your temples. “He kissed me like… like he actually wanted to.”
Lizzie softens just a bit. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you admit. “And now my brain won’t shut up about it.”
She smirks. “Is your brain saying wow he’s hot or wow I want him to ruin my life?”
“…Both.”
Lizzie claps her hands once. “Perfect.”
You stare at her. “That’s not helpful.”
“It’s very helpful,” she insists. “Because one of those is lust and the other is feelings.”
You groan. “I don’t want to overthink this.”
“Too late,” she says cheerfully. “You’re already imagining what’s under those jeans.”
“I am NOT—”
She leans in, whispering dramatically. “Come on. You’ve wondered.”
You cover your face. “I hate you.”
“You love me,” she corrects. “And you’re going to text him.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“What would I even say?”
Lizzie thinks for half a second. “Hey, wanna hang out? Preferably somewhere private? Just kidding. Unless?”
You laugh despite yourself. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m right,” she says. “Go have fun. Go flirt. Go see where it goes.”
You glance down at your phone, heart doing that stupid hopeful thing again. “…Okay,” you admit. “Maybe.”
Lizzie grins, victorious. “That’s my girl.” Then she adds casually, “And when you find out what he’s packing—”
“LIZZIE.”
She cackles, and you can’t help but laugh too, because for the first time in days, thinking about Oscar doesn’t hurt. It just makes you smile.
You stare at your phone for a full minute before hitting send.
You: hey, random but wanna come over and watch that movie we never finished? the haunted house one?
You toss the phone onto your bed like it might bite you.
“That was casual,” you mutter. “So casual. Painfully casual.”
Your phone buzzes almost immediately.
Oscar: yeah :) sounds good
Your heart does a completely unnecessary backflip. Before you can overthink it further, another notification pops up.
Lizzie: BITCH. PUT ON YOUR BEST LINGERIE.
You groan out loud. “Absolutely not.”
Lizzie: I am serious. HAVE YOU SEEN THAT MAN
You type back furiously.
You: he is coming over to watch a MOVIE. we are FRIENDS.
Lizzie: friends don’t kiss like that.
You lock your phone and drop it face-down. “I’m not doing this,” you tell the empty room. “I’m being normal.”
Cut to: ten minutes later, standing in front of your mirror in very pretty lingerie.
“…This is stupid,” you say to your reflection, tugging on a hoodie and a pair of shorts over it. “He’s not going to magically jump me. He literally just helped me. This means nothing.”
Still, your pulse won’t slow down. You fix your hair. You redo it. You change your shirt. You sit on the bed. You stand again. You check your phone.
Then there’s a knock. You freeze.
“Oh my god,” you whisper. “Okay. Okay.”
You open the door. Oscar Piastri is standing there in sweats and a t-shirt, gym bag slung over one shoulder. His hair is still damp, darker than usual, curling slightly at the ends like he’s only just towel-dried it. He smells clean, soap and something sharp and familiar.
He definitely just came from training. Hockey gear is half-visible in the bag, and you hate that your brain immediately supplies images you didn’t ask for.
“Hey,” he says, smiling softly. “Hope this is still okay.”
“Yeah,” you reply, voice a touch too high. “Totally. Come in.”
He steps inside, glancing around your dorm room with a fond familiarity. “You’ve got better lighting than mine.”
“That’s because my roommate owns three lamps and unresolved issues,” you say.
He laughs, and the sound settles something in your chest. You both hover awkwardly for a moment.
“So,” you say. “Movie?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Movie.”
You sit on the bed, deliberately leaving space. He sits beside you, close enough that your knees brush and neither of you moves away.
Your heart is doing too much. You press play, but you’re painfully aware of everything else: the warmth of him beside you, the way his arm rests just behind you, the faint drip of water from his hair onto his collar.
This is nothing, you tell yourself. This is just Oscar. Your best friend. Calm down.
Still, every nerve in your body feels like it’s waiting. And somewhere between the opening credits and the quiet space between you, you realize this might not be nothing at all.
The movie is still playing, but it’s just noise now, dialogue bleeding into music, light flickering across the walls without either of you really seeing it.
Oscar doesn’t look at the screen at all. He looks at you.
“You’re doing that thing again,” he says quietly.
You blink. “What thing?”
“That thing where you pretend you’re calm,” he replies, lips curving slightly. “When you’re very clearly not.”
You huff, folding your arms. “You don’t know that.”
He leans closer, just enough that you feel the heat of him. “I do.”
Your breath catches despite yourself.
He waits. Lets the silence stretch. Lets you squirm. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Say it.”
“Say what?”
“Why you really wanted me here.”
You look away, pulse pounding. “I already told you.”
“No,” he says gently. “You danced around it.”
You swallow. “Oscar—”
He smiles, slow and knowing. “Was it because you missed kissing me?”
Your face burns. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little,” he admits. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”
You glare at him. “I hate you.”
“Mm,” he hums. “You don’t.”
You exhale, defeated. “Fine. I liked kissing you. A lot.”
His eyes darken just slightly. “And?” he presses.
“And I keep thinking about it,” you continue, quieter now. “About you.”
He nods once, satisfied. “Good,” he says. “Because if I kiss you again, I want you thinking about me.”
Your heart stumbles.
“Not your ex,” he adds softly. “Not any other guy. Just me.”
You lick your lips, suddenly very aware of how close he is. “You’re being… very confident.”
He chuckles under his breath. “Only because you invited me over and then told me you liked kissing me.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“It means something,” he interrupts gently. “At least to me.”
He shifts closer again, one hand lifting to rest against your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s testing the waters. “If you were mine,” he says quietly, voice low and steady, “I wouldn’t let anyone make you feel like you were replaceable.”
Your chest tightens.
“If you were mine,” he continues, eyes never leaving yours, “I’d make sure you never wondered whether you were wanted.”
You inhale shakily.
“That sounds unfair,” you whisper.
He smiles. “Yeah. It is.”
You tilt your head slightly, leaning into his touch without even realizing it. He notices. Of course he does.
“That okay?” he asks softly.
You nod.
His other hand comes up, mirroring the first, palms warm against your cheeks like he’s holding you in place, not trapping, just anchoring. When he kisses you this time, it’s slower, deeper, intentional.
Not rushed. Not pretend.
You melt into it immediately, fingers clutching his shirt, heart racing as his mouth moves against yours like he knows exactly what he’s doing and exactly how much to give without taking too much.
You forget the room. You forget the movie. You forget why this started.
You don’t even realize you’ve moved until your knees hit the mattress. You’re shifting closer, chasing the friction of his body against yours, needing more of that solid heat, more of the way he makes everything else go quiet.
Oscar reacts instantly.
His hands drop from your face, catching you by the waist with a grip that’s firm enough to startle you. He pulls you forward, and you stumble, a small noise escaping your throat as your balance shifts. Before you can steady yourself, he tugs you right onto his lap.
The air leaves your lungs in a rush.
Suddenly, he’s everywhere. He’s solid muscle and warm skin beneath his t-shirt, his thighs hard underneath yours. The sheer size of him sinks in immediately. He’s broader than you realized, stronger, taking up space like he was built to fill it. You feel small like this, boxed in by the cage of his arms, your knees resting on the outside of his hips.
“Oscar,” you breathe, heartbeat hammering against your ribs.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, sounding unconcerned. His hands span your waist, palms large enough that his thumbs brush the underside of your ribs. He doesn’t let you move away, doesn’t let you wiggle off. He just holds you there, effortlessly. “This okay?”
You nod, flushed, hands resting on his shoulders for balance. One of his hands slides down to your thigh, fingers curling into the skin there, squeezing.
The weight of him, the way his hips shift beneath you, it’s overwhelming in the best way. You can feel every inch of him, and you’re suddenly, violently aware that you are wearing a skirt and he is wearing gym shorts and there is very little fabric between you two.
He leans up and catches your mouth again, and this time, there’s no hesitation. No restraint.
It’s messy. He licks into your mouth like he’s starving, one hand tangling in your hair to tilt your head back, giving himself better access. You moan, a broken, embarrassing sound, and your fingers tighten in his shirt, desperate for something to hold onto.
He manhandles you like it’s nothing. He adjusts your position with an easy grip on your hips, pulling you flush against him so you’re seated firmly on his lap, your center pressed right against him. The friction makes you gasp, your head falling forward onto his shoulder.
“God,” you whisper, face burning. You’re so worked up you can barely think straight. Your body is humming, tense and waiting, and you have no idea how to handle the fact that Oscar Piastri, the quiet, steady, reliable Oscar, is the one making you feel like this.
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest and vibrating against yours. His hand smooths up your spine, comforting and possessive all at once.
“You’re shaking,” he notes, sounding far too pleased about it.
“I’m not,” you lie, even though you are.
“You are.” He presses a kiss to the side of your neck, right under your ear, and your whole body shudders. “It’s cute.”
“Oscar,” you say, half-warning, half-plea. You don’t even know what you’re asking for. You just know you need something. More. Less. You need him to stop or you need him to never stop.
He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze heavy and intent. He lifts one hand, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering against your cheek.
“You look so good like this,” he says, voice dropping lower. “All flushed and desperate. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to see you this way.”
Your heart stumbles. “You—what?”
“Since the day I met you,” he admits, like it’s a secret he’s finally allowed to tell. His thumb traces your lower lip, pulling it down slightly. “But watching you fall apart on my lap? That’s better than I imagined.”
You stare at him, mouth slightly open, utterly wrecked. He’s so confident. So sure of himself. It’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.
“You’re so cocky,” you whisper, awed.
“Only ‘cause now I know you want it,” he replies easily, his eyes dropping to your mouth again. “Now, come back here. I’m not done kissing you yet.”
He pulls you in before you can respond, and you let him. You melt against his chest, letting his hands roam, letting him manhandle you however he wants, because right now, there is nowhere else on earth you’d rather be.
Oscar’s hands settle firmly on your waist, grounding you, but instead of pulling you back into another kiss, he pulls back just enough to look you in the eye. The air between you is thick, heavy with the heat radiating off his body, but his gaze is steady, searching.
"Hey," he murmurs, his voice a little rough but soft. "We need to be clear."
Your heart hammers against your ribs. "About what?"
"About where this goes." His thumbs stroke the skin of your hips, a soothing contrast to the intensity of his stare. "I know we started this to make a point, but we're past that now. I want to make sure you're okay with going further. With me."
The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tight. He’s not just looking for a hookup; he’s checking in, making sure you’re actually there with him.
"I'm okay," you breathe, nodding. "I want this. I want you."
A slow, satisfied grin spreads across his face. "Good."
He reaches for the hem of his shirt, and you watch, mesmerized, as he pulls it up and over his head in one fluid motion. The fabric hits the floor, forgotten instantly.
Your stomach drops. You gulp audibly.
Because good God. You knew he was an athlete, you’d seen him in jerseys and tank tops, but this is different. Without the barrier of cotton, he’s a solid wall of muscle. His shoulders are broad, tapering down to a chest that is somehow both lean and sculpted, defined abs flexing slightly as he settles back against the headboard. His skin is warm, golden under the lamp light, and there’s a smattering of moles on his neck and shoulder that you suddenly, desperately want to trace with your tongue.
You feel your face heating up, flustered and overwhelmed by the sheer reality of him. He’s gorgeous. He’s perfect.
Oscar notices your reaction immediately. His gaze darkens with amusement and something hungrier as he takes in your wide eyes and the way you’re practically gnawing on your bottom lip.
"Like what you see?" he teases gently.
"Shut up," you mutter, but there’s no heat in it, mostly because your hands are already moving, drawn to him like a magnet. You flatten your palms against his chest, feeling the hammer of his heart under your skin, the hard ridges of muscle.
He chuckles, the vibration rumbling through your fingertips. "It’s only fair if I get to see you too, isn't it?"
Before you can process the question, his hands are at the hem of your shirt. He pauses, giving you a second to stop him, but when you don't, he slowly peels the fabric upward. You lift your arms to help him, and the moment your shirt is gone, tossed somewhere over the edge of the bed, the air feels cooler against your heated skin.
Oscar stills. His eyes drop to your chest, and the amusement in his face is instantly replaced by something darker, heavier. A low hum vibrates in his throat.
He stares at the black lace bra you’re wearing, the one you had debated throwing on earlier, the one that makes your breasts look amazing and feels scandalously delicate against your skin.
"Well, well," he murmurs, his gaze dragging over the lace, tracing the curve of the cups. "Did you put this pretty thing on for me, hmm?"
The heat in your face intensifies. "I... maybe."
He grins, looking up at you through his lashes. "It’s working. You look incredible."
He reaches out, his hands warm and large as they cover your breasts, squeezing gently through the lace. The sensation is electric, the rough fabric of his palms against the delicate lace, the pressure, the possessiveness of the touch. Your back arches on instinct, pushing you further into his hands.
"Oscar," you gasp.
"God, look at you," he mutters, leaning in to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the side of your neck. "So pretty."
His fingers find the clasp of your bra with practiced ease. There’s a soft click, and then the tension releases. He slides the straps down your arms, tossing the bra aside to join the growing pile of clothes on the floor.
The cool air hits your skin, but Oscar is there a second later, warming you up. He kisses down the column of your throat, his lips wet and hot, trailing fire across your skin. When he reaches the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder, he sucks hard, just enough to sting.
You gasp, your head falling back. "Oscar..."
"Hm?" He doesn't stop. He moves lower, kissing his way across your collarbone, down to the swell of your breasts. He’s taking his time, worshiping the skin like he’s been starving for it.
"Are you marking me?" you breathe, half-laughing, half-moaning.
He pulls back slightly, admiring the dark purple bloom already forming on your skin. "Maybe," he says, a smug tilt to his lips. "I want everyone to know you were with me tonight."
Before you can respond to that, before you can even process how possessive and hot that is, he leans back down. This time, his target is lower. He takes one of your nipples into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak before he sucks hard.
The sensation shoots straight through you, white-hot and overwhelming. Your fingers fly to his hair, threading through the damp curls, holding him against you as a broken moan tears from your throat.
"Jesus," you whisper, your hips bucking involuntarily against his lap.
He groans against your skin, the sound vibrating through your chest, sending shockwaves straight down to your core. His free hand comes up to knead your other breast, his thumb rolling over your neglected nipple in a rhythm that matches the movements of his tongue.
It’s too much and not enough all at once. The heat of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth, the friction of his body against yours, you’re completely overwhelmed, senses narrowing down to just him. The smell of his soap, the taste of his skin, the weight of his hands.
You dig your nails into his shoulders, dragging them down the hard planes of his back. The feeling is primal, a desperate need to ground yourself as he pushes you higher and higher.
He hisses at the sharp sensation, his head snapping up. His eyes are blown wide, dark with arousal, and there’s a flush high on his cheekbones.
"Careful," he murmurs, though his voice is wrecked, betraying how much he likes it. "You leave a mark, I’m leaving one too."
"Then don't stop," you challenge, your voice breathless and trembling.
He stares at you for a beat, something raw and hungry passing over his face, and then he surges up to capture your mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing your moan as his hands roam your bare skin, claiming every inch of you.
The friction of his shorts against your bare thighs is suddenly too much, rough and constricting. Oscar seems to sense your restlessness because his hands drift from your waist down to the button of your skirt.
He pauses, his fingers resting on the metal, his eyes finding yours again. That steady, grounding look is back, cutting through the haze of lust.
"Let's get these off," he murmurs. "Is that okay?"
You nod frantically, your breath hitching. "Yes. Please, Oscar."
He undoes the button and zipper with agonizing slowness, sliding the fabric down your hips. You lift yourself up slightly to help him, and he peels your skirt and panties down your legs in one go, tossing them carelessly onto the floor.
The rush of cool air against your heated skin makes you shiver, but Oscar doesn't give you long to feel exposed. He pulls you back against him, skin to skin now from the waist up, his hands warm and possessive on your bare hips.
"You're beautiful," he says, his voice rougher than before. "So fucking beautiful."
Your face burns, but the sincerity in his voice makes your heart clench. He's looking at you like you're a prize he's just won, like he can't quite believe you're real.
It’s your turn now. Your hands tremble slightly as you reach for the waistband of his gym shorts. You hook your fingers underneath, tugging them down.
Oscar lifts his hips to help you, and you pull the fabric down, along with his boxers, freeing him.
Your eyes drop, and your breath catches in your throat. You knew he was big, you could feel it when you were on his lap, but seeing it is different. He’s thick and heavy, flushing a dark shade that matches the flush on his cheeks. He springs free, slapping against his stomach, and the sheer size of him makes your mouth go dry.
"Oh," you breathe, staring.
Oscar lets out a shaky breath, his head falling back against the headboard. "E-everything okay?"
"Yeah. You're..." You trail off, at a loss for words. "You're really big."
He lets out a huff of laughter that sounds more like a groan. "Is that a good thing?"
"It's a very good thing," you manage, a rush of heat flooding your veins. A size kink you didn't know you possessed flares to life, demanding that you get your hands on him.
You wrap your hand around him, your fingers barely meeting around his girth. He hisses through his teeth, his hips bucking up into your grip involuntarily.
"Jesus," he grits out.
You stroke him experimentally, marveling at the weight of him in your palm, the velvet-soft skin over steel-hard heat. "Is this okay?"
"More than okay," he rasps, his eyes fluttering shut. "Feels amazing."
You continue to stroke him, slow and deliberate, watching the way his abs contract with every movement. He’s breathing hard, his chest heaving, and the power you have over him in this moment is intoxicating.
Then his hand slides between your legs.
You gasp, your hips jerking forward as his fingers brush through your folds. He groans low in his throat when he finds how wet you are.
"Fuck," he mutters, his voice dark with wonder. "You're soaked. All this for me?"
"All for you," you breathe, your hand faltering on his cock as his fingers begin to explore. "Oscar, please..."
"I've got you," he murmurs. He collects your wetness, dragging it up to your clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with agonizing precision.
Your head falls back, a moan tearing from your throat. The dual sensation of his fingers on your clit and his cock in your hand is almost too much to process.
"Look at you," he murmurs, watching your face intently. "Falling apart already. I've wanted this for so long. Wanted to see you like this. Can't believe it's actually happening."
He slides one finger inside you, and you gasp, your walls clamping down around him immediately. He groans at the tightness, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.
"You feel incredible," he whispers against your skin. "So tight. So perfect."
He sets a rhythm, his finger pumping in and out of you, curling just right to hit that spot that makes your toes curl. Your hand on his cock speeds up instinctively, matching his pace, your thumb brushing over the leaking tip.
The room fills with the sounds of your pleasure, heavy breathing, broken moans, the wet slap of his fingers inside you, the friction of your hand on his cock.
Oscar kisses you, swallowing your cries, his tongue tangling with yours in a messy, desperate dance. It’s wet and dirty and perfect, his other hand coming up to cup the back of your neck, holding you in place as he devours you.
You moan into his mouth, your hips bucking against his hand, chasing the friction you need. He adds a second finger, stretching you open, and you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulder again.
"God, you're so responsive," he praises, pulling back slightly to look at you, his eyes dark and hungry. "Taking my fingers so well. You have no idea what you do to me, do you?"
You shake your head, panting, your vision blurring at the edges. "I don't—Oscar, I'm close."
"I know," he murmurs, his voice soothing even as his movements turn more aggressive. "Let go for me. I've got you."
He speeds up his thrusts, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit, and the pleasure coils tight in your belly, ready to snap. You stroke him faster, desperate to push him over the edge with you, your hand flying over his length.
The combination is overwhelming, the stretch of his fingers, the pressure on your clit, the heavy weight of him in your hand. You're spiraling, climbing higher and higher, and Oscar is right there with you, anchoring you, guiding you, taking you apart piece by piece.
The pressure inside you builds to a breaking point, your thighs trembling as his fingers work you relentlessly. You cry out, your back arching off his chest as the orgasm crashes over you, wave after wave of pleasure leaving you boneless and gasping. Your hand tightens almost painfully around him as you ride it out, stroking him frantically through your own high.
Oscar groans deep in his chest, his hips jerking up into your fist, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. He’s right there with you, tensing up, but just as you feel him swell in your hand, his movements still.
He catches your wrist, gently but firmly, stopping you.
Your eyes flutter open, dazed and confused. "What—?"
"I can't," he breathes, his chest heaving against yours. He presses a kiss to your sweat-dampened temple. "Not like this. If I come now, I'm done for. And I..." He pulls back to look you in the eye, his gaze intense and serious. "I want to fuck you. Properly. But only if you want that."
The heat rushes back to your face, a fresh wave of arousal mixing with the aftershocks of your orgasm. You stare at him, taking in the flush on his cheeks, the desperate hunger in his eyes, the way he’s holding himself back just for you.
"Yeah," you whisper, your voice shy but sure. "I want that. I want you."
He lets out a shaky breath, closing his eyes for a second like he’s trying to rein himself in. "Thank god."
You climb off his lap, your legs feeling distinctly unsteady beneath you. You stumble slightly, catching yourself on the edge of the bed.
Oscar smirks, his eyes dragging shamelessly over your naked form as you stand there. "Easy there."
"Shut up," you mutter, glaring at him over your shoulder, though you can't find it in you to be annoyed when he’s looking at you like you’re a masterpiece. "I'm fine."
"You’re gorgeous," he corrects, leaning back on his elbows, completely unashamed of his own nakedness. "And you’re wobbly. I’m taking it as a compliment."
You roll your eyes, fighting a smile, and turn to your nightstand. You pull open the drawer, rummaging through the clutter until your fingers close around the familiar foil packet. You grab it and turn back around.
Oscar hasn’t moved. He’s still watching you, appreciating the view of your bare back and the curve of your hips as you walk back toward him. The heat in his gaze is tangible, scorching.
You climb back onto the bed, kneeling between his spread legs. You rip the foil open with your teeth, something that makes Oscar’s eyebrows raise in impressed amusement, and roll the condom down his length. Your fingers brush against him, and he hisses, his abs twitching at the contact.
"Sorry," you murmur.
"Don't apologize," he says, his voice low and rough. "Just... come here."
He reaches for you, guiding you to straddle his lap again, but this time he shifts, maneuvering you until your back hits the mattress. He settles over you, bracketing your head with his arms, his weight resting on his elbows so he doesn't crush you.
The change in position makes your breath hitch. He’s big like this, broad shoulders blocking out the light, his muscles caging you in. It feels safe. It feels inevitable.
"You sure?" he asks one last time, searching your face. "We don't have to rush."
"I'm sure," you whisper, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down. "I want you, Oscar."
He lowers his hips, aligning himself with your entrance. He pushes forward slowly, letting you adjust to the stretch. The burn is intense, a sharp, sweet sting that makes your breath catch in your throat.
He pauses when he’s halfway in, his jaw tight. "Okay?"
"Keep going," you breathe out, digging your heels into the mattress. "Please."
He groans and sinks deeper, burying himself to the hilt. You gasp, your eyes squeezing shut as he fills you completely. He’s big, stretching you wide, the sensation overwhelming and perfect all at once.
Oscar stills, giving you a moment to adjust, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth. "You feel so good," he murmurs against your skin. "So tight. Taking me so well."
You wrap your legs around his waist, urging him closer. "Move. Please."
He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, before pushing back in. The drag of him against your walls is delicious, slow and deliberate. He sets a rhythm that’s deep and thorough, his hips rolling against yours in a way that sends sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine.
"God," he breathes, burying his face in your neck. "I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe you're actually here."
"Me neither," you admit, your voice trembling as he hits a spot that makes your toes curl.
He lifts his head to look at you, his eyes soft despite the intensity of the moment. "You're perfect," he says, his voice full of awe. "Everything about you. You're so beautiful."
He kisses you again, deep and sweet, swallowing your moans as he picks up the pace slightly. The pleasure builds again, slow and this time more intense, coiling low in your belly. He’s being so gentle, so careful with you, treating you like something precious, and it makes your heart ache just as much as your body.
"Oscar," you gasp, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.
"I love it when you moan my name," he whispers, his rhythm steady.
The rhythm shifts, the careful precision melting away as the pleasure builds to a fever pitch. Oscar starts to move faster, his thrusts becoming deeper, harder. The snap of his hips against yours is loud in the quiet room, echoing the thumping of your heart.
You moan, your head falling back against the pillow as he hits that spot inside you with devastating accuracy. That’s it. Something in him snaps.
A low, guttural sound tears from his throat, and suddenly the gentle, careful Oscar is gone. He grips your thighs, pushing them back toward your chest to open you up wider, changing the angle so he can drive into you even deeper.
"Ah, fuck," he growls, his eyes boring into yours, dark and wild. "I can’t get enough of you."
"Oscar," you cry out, your voice breaking as he grinds into you, the new angle devastating. "God, Oscar—"
"Yeah, that’s it," he pants, his rhythm turning rough, almost desperate. "You have no idea what it does to me. Hearing you say my name like that."
He leans down, capturing your mouth in a searing, messy kiss. It’s all teeth and tongue and shared breath, dominating and consuming. He swallows your moans, his hips pistoning into you, the bed creaking beneath you.
"You feel so good," he mutters against your lips, his voice wrecked. "Best thing I’ve ever felt. You’re perfect."
The pleasure is blinding, coiling tight in your belly, ready to snap. You cling to him, your nails digging into his shoulders, anchoring yourself as he fucks you into the mattress. Every thrust pushes you higher, the friction burning hot and sweet.
He shifts again, sitting back on his haunches and hooking your legs over his arms. The leverage lets him fuck you harder, deeper, the intensity of it stealing the air from your lungs. The sight of him, muscles flexing, sweat beading on his forehead, eyes fixed on where your bodies join, is erotic enough to make you dizzy.
"Keep your eyes open," he commands breathlessly. "Look at me, baby.”
You force your eyes open, your gaze locking with his. The raw hunger in his eyes makes you shiver, your walls clenching around him involuntarily.
He groans, his head dropping back for a second. "Shit. You’re gonna make me lose it."
"Good," you manage, your voice trembling. "I want you to."
He lets out a dark laugh, leaning forward to brace himself on the headboard, caging you in completely. He resumes his rhythm, pounding into you now, losing himself in the heat of your body. The sounds of skin slapping against skin fill the room, mixed with your shared panting and the broken cries of his name.
It’s frantic and raw and perfect, and you know you’re not going to last much longer. The coil in your belly is pulled tight, ready to unravel, and every drag of his cock against your walls pushes you closer to the edge.
The coil in your belly winds tighter and tighter, pulled to the breaking point by every ruthless snap of his hips. You can’t hold it back anymore.
"Oscar, I'm—I'm gonna come," you cry out, your voice breaking on a sob of pleasure.
"Let go," he growls, his rhythm turning erratic, desperate. "Come for me."
He thrusts deep, grinding his hips against yours, and that’s all it takes. Your vision whites out, your back bowing off the mattress as the orgasm tears through you. You clamp down around him, your body pulsing and shaking, crying out his name as the pleasure floods your veins, leaving you gasping and boneless.
Oscar groans loud and long, his hips stuttering as your walls flutter around him. "Fuck—"
He buries himself to the hilt one last time, his whole body going taut as a bowstring. He chokes out a moan against your neck, his face pressed into your skin as he finds his own release, shuddering in your arms.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room is your ragged breathing, both of you trying to come back down. His weight is heavy on top of you, grounding, solid, and warm. You can feel the rapid thud of his heart against your chest, matching the frantic pace of your own.
Eventually, he lifts his head. His hair is a mess, sticking up in every direction, and his face is flushed, but his eyes are incredibly soft as he looks down at you.
"Hi," he murmurs, a crooked, tired smile playing on his lips.
You huff out a weak laugh, reaching up to brush a damp curl off his forehead. "Hi."
He leans down and kisses you, soft, slow, and sweet. A complete contrast to the desperate, rough fucking from moments before. It’s a kiss that says I’m here, I’ve got you, you’re safe.
"You okay?" he asks quietly, pulling back just enough to search your eyes.
"Yeah," you whisper, feeling a little dazed. "More than okay. That was..."
"Yeah," he agrees, pressing another kiss to your temple. "It really was."
He shifts carefully, pulling out of you. You wince slightly at the sensation, and he notices immediately, his hand stroking your hip soothingly.
"I'll be right back," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Don't move."
He climbs off the bed, and you watch through half-lidded eyes as he pads across the room to dispose of the condom in the trash. He doesn't bother putting his clothes back on; he just moves with that easy, athletic grace you’ve always admired, completely naked and unselfconscious.
He returns a moment later with a warm, damp washcloth from your attached bathroom. The bed dips under his weight as he sits beside you.
"Let me," he says softly, gently nudging your legs apart.
You flush, a sudden wave of shyness hitting you now that the heat of the moment has passed, but you let him clean you up. His touch is reverent, incredibly gentle as he wipes away the stickiness, taking care of you with a level of attention that makes your heart ache.
It’s such an intimate thing, maybe even more than the sex itself, the way he’s looking after you, making sure you’re comfortable.
"Thank you," you whisper when he’s done, watching as he tosses the cloth toward the hamper.
"Of course," he replies, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He lies down beside you, pulling the duvet up over both of you before gathering you into his arms. You shift automatically, tucking yourself against his side, your head resting on his chest. His arm wraps around your shoulders, holding you close, his fingers tracing absent patterns on your bare arm.
The silence stretches, comfortable and warm. You listen to the steady beat of his heart, feeling grounded, safe, and incredibly content.
"So," Oscar says after a while, his voice rumbling softly against your ear. "That definitely wasn't just for show."
You let out a soft laugh, burying your face in his neck. "No. It definitely wasn't."
He tightens his hold on you slightly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "I'm glad," he admits. "I really wanted this. I've wanted this for a long time."
You look up, propping your chin on his chest to meet his gaze. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," he says, looking at you with that same serious, steady intensity. "Not just the sex. But... this. Being with you."
Your heart does a slow, steady flip. "I think I wanted this too," you confess softly. "I just didn't let myself think about it."
"Well, you can think about it now," he murmurs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "As much as you want."
"Good," you say, leaning up to kiss him softly. "Because I don't think I'm done with you yet."
He grins against your mouth, his hand sliding down to squeeze your hip. "Good. Because I'm not letting you go anytime soon."
(Jack Abbot x fem!FBI!reader x Michael Robinavitch)
Part 1
Soulmate au
Note: this is set in season 2, but as of right now we are still waiting on episode 8 to air, so i have no idea how season 2 ends yet- i am just letting my imagination run wild after episode 7. With a criminal minds crossover (borrowing the BAU for this, hope you guys don't mind.) You don't have to know anything about criminal minds to read this. Thank you.
Warnings: no medical accuracy whatsoever. no idea how the fbi works. poly soulmate au. reader doesn't have a name but it's hinted that her name is a boy's name / not common for girls - no name is mentioned. 5-7 years age gap.
Warnings: no medical accuracy whatsoever. no idea how the fbi works. poly soulmate au. reader doesn't have a name but it's hinted that her name is a boy's name / not common for girls - no name is mentioned. 5-7 years age gap. Injuries. Hostage situation. Gunshots. Angst.
wc◇5.1k
"What the hell!"
Trent Norris’s voice cut through the department like a gunshot, loud enough to make conversations snap in half and hands freeze mid-motion. For a split second, even the monitors seemed quieter.
“You are not searching me!”
Silence followed, heavy and immediate. Heads turned in unison, Perlah halfway through adjusting an IV stopped with her fingers still curled around the tubing, Santos and Javadi leaned out from behind a curtain, eyes wide and hungry for distraction. Even Joy and Ogilvie who had been at each other's throats in front of doctor Mohan and doctor Langdon lifted their chins toward the sound.
At the center of it stood the CEO himself, face flushed an angry shade of red, jaw tight, chest puffed up like indignation alone could grant immunity.
Agent Jareau, blonde, composed, and visibly running on fumes, looked towards Morgan with the expression of someone who had exactly one ounce of patience left and was deciding whether this man deserved it or not.
“Mr. Norris-” Morgan began, hands open in a gesture that could have meant either calm down or don’t make me do this.
He didn’t get far.
“Listen here,” Norris barked, stepping forward as if volume would guarantee his authority. “I am the damn CEO. You think I will have a weapon here? That I am working with someone to terrorize my own hospital?”
By now, everyone was watching. Some nurses had fully stepped into the hallway, a respiratory therapist lingered openly in a doorway, no longer pretending to be subtle, even the paramedic at the far end of the room slowed down to a stop.
“Frankly, sir, we don’t care.” Yn's voice cut clean and precise through the air.
Morgan and Jareau shifted away gradually, creating space without looking like they were retreating. It was subtle, the way they did it, years of partnership compressed into a single silent agreement; when Hotchner wasn’t present, they all knew who commanded the room.
Yn stepped forward. Her posture was straight and controlled, her gaze steady and unwavering as she looked up at the larger man without a hint of intimidation.
“You will be searched,” she continued, each word deliberate. “Just like we searched the patients. Just like we searched your staff.”
The emphasis was subtle yet sharp.
“You think one of the people who work here- who give their lives to this place more than you ever did- would bring in a weapon? Hell no. But they were searched.”
Her voice hardened.
“And so will you.”
Norris opened his mouth again, but whatever he intended to say stalled under the weight of her stare.
“Stand still,” she finished, her tone now edged with steel, “and shut up.”
The department held its breath. Yn didn’t shout, she didn’t need to, there was something far more dangerous than anger in her voice- certainty.
Her eyes locked onto his, unflinching, unyielding and full of disrespect. The kind of gaze that had stared down serial killers, liars and men who believed their power and position exempted them from consequence. It didn't.
Trent Norris, CEO of the hospital, sputtered for half a second longer before the fight drained from his shoulders. Not because he’d been convinced, but because he’d been overruled and outranked by someone who didn’t care about his title, it was someone who only cared about protocol.
He lifted his arms stiffly, muttering under his breath as she stepped closer. The contrast was almost absurd, her well built yet smaller frame- precise movements, calm hands checking his waistband, jacket, ankles- while he stood rigid and offended.
No one laughed, but the tension shifted. Yn finished quickly, stepping back once she was satisfied.
“You’re clear,” she said simply.
No apology. No emotion. Just fact.
Norris lowered his arms, smoothing down his collar as though reclaiming his dignity through the fabric. He cast one last glare in her direction, but it faltered under the steadiness of her expression.
Across the station, Robby felt something low and warm curl in his chest that had nothing to do with soulmate bonds and everything to do with pride. Jack, beside him, looked dangerously close to smiling.
God, she was terrifying. And entirely theirs.
Yn turned away from Norris without another glance, already scanning the room again, recalibrating. Asomething lingered in the air; respect, not for the CEO, but for the FBI agent who shook him down with a stare.
“Okay, everyone,” Robby called out, his voice cutting through the restless hum of bodies and machinery. He glanced around at the nurses hovering near the nurses’ station, at the residents lingering with charts clutched to their chests, at the nosy patients pretending to look for nurses just to stay within earshot of the FBI agents. “Get moving.”
The spell broke, gowns and scrubs scattered back into motion, the hospital floor breathing again, even if the air still felt tight.
Yn stepped closer to the younger blonde agent at her side, lowering her voice just enough to keep it between them. “Any word from Garcia yet?”
Agent Jareau shook her head, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She looked composed, she always did, but there was a thin line pulling at her forehead. “No. Rossi and Spencer are saying everyone over there is clear.”
A broad shadow fell over them as Derek Morgan joined the duo, scanning the corridors like he expected their unit chief to materialize from sheer force of will. “Where the hell is Hotch?”
“He went back to Westbridge,” JJ replied.
Yn’s gaze snapped toward her. “What? Why is he there if everything is clear?” Her eyes swept the chaotic floor again, patients being wheeled through, orderlies weaving between IV poles, doctors murmuring urgent updates.
“Bomb threat.”
The words settled heavy in her chest. Now her eyes locked on JJ’s, dark and sharp.
“Fuck me.”
“Is that only in Westbridge or?”
“So far.”
“So far,” Yn echoed under her breath, the phrase tasting bitter. She straightened, the shift in her posture subtle but immediate, command sliding into place like it belonged there. “Okay. We’re spreading out. Keep your eyes open. If anything feels off, handle it slow. Don’t rush.” Her voice dropped lower with each word, controlled and deliberate. “This is an emergency department, they’ve got enough to worry about without us adding to it.”
Morgan gave a short nod while JJ’s shoulders squared.
“I’m calling Hotch,” Yn added, already pulling her phone out of her pocket. “We need Bomb Squad on standby. Just in case.”
They split without another word.
Yn moved through the corridor with purpose, phone pressed to her ear, her voice hushed but urgent as it connected. Doctors and nurses passed her in a blur of scrubs; she didn’t spare them a glance, didn’t let her focus drift- until she saw Dana weaving through the chaos with brisk determination.
“Hey, pretty,” Yn murmured, tilting the phone slightly toward her shoulder to muffle her end of the conversation, her tone softening just a fraction. “Can you let Dr. Robby know I need to speak with him? As soon as he’s free. I’ll need ten minutes of his time. Thanks.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. The phone was back at her ear, the professional mask settling firmly back into place as she continued speaking to her on-paper supervisor, her steps never slowing.
Dana was already moving. She navigated the sea of people with ease, scanning for the tall figure who usually stood out in any room. She didn’t find Robby, but she did find his counterpart.
“Hey,” she called, stepping toward Jack Abbot. “You seen Robby?”
Jack stood shoulder to shoulder with Javadi and Mel, gloves snapped snug around his wrists, posture alert and ready. “No. Why?”
“Agent Yn wants to talk to him.”
The reaction was almost subtle, but it was there. The flicker in his eyes, the tightening along his jaw. He turned to the two younger doctors, already stripping the gloves from his hands. “Doctor Javadi, you’ll handle the procedure. Doctor King, assist her if needed.” His voice was calm, but there was an edge beneath it.
“Did she say why?” he asked Dana as he stepped closer.
“No. Seemed urgent though.” Dana studied him, taking in the subtle signs, his jaw ticking, the faint crease between his brows- not his usual frown- this one meant something was wrong, something she wasn’t being told.
She stopped walking, forcing him to stop too. “What’s going on, cowboy?”
Her tone was light and teasing, but her eyes weren’t- they were sharp, searching.
Jack and Robby had never let anyone see the names inked into their skin. They’d talked about it once, early on when they first met, when everything was still new and raw and overwhelming. They’d agreed it was fine if people knew they were soulmates, it was fine if people knew there was a third- it would’ve been impossible to hide that anyway, not with the wrist to elbow cover sleeve sticking to Jack’s forearm everywhere. But the name? That was sacred, private. Just for them. Years had passed since that conversation. Years of learning who could be trusted and who would gossip. And Dana could be trusted, she would help.
Because right now, with FBI walking around their halls, they needed someone steady, someone rational, someone who could keep things contained if everything went sideways. Someone who would make sure the three of them made it past this godforsaken day.
Jack glanced around once, scanning for watching eyes, then jerked his head towards an empty patient room. Dana followed without hesitation. Inside, he pulled the curtains shut, barely muting the chaos beyond them, the fluorescent light hummed overhead and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Jack reached for his forearm and slowly he began rolling back the fabric of his cover sleeve, the ink emerging in careful strokes of dark lettering, stark against his skin. There was no mistaking it.
YN LN.
The name stared up at Dana like a confession and a threat at the same time. She exhaled sharply, somewhere between disbelief and frustration. “Goddammit, you two.”
The first time Yn looks at Robby, really looks at him, it isn’t cinematic. There’s no swell of music in the background, no fluorescent lights flickering at the exact right second, no cosmic ripple that makes the entire ED pause mid-step.
It’s painfully, almost insultingly, normal.
Yn straightens from where she’s been leaning against the counter, the movement subtle but deliberate. Her spine aligns, her shoulders square, and she lifts her chin just enough to meet his eyes. There’s nothing soft in her expression, nothing dreamy or awestruck. She studies him the way she studies a crime scene, the way she studies a suspect. Calm, clinical and focused.
Her gaze drags over the lines of his face like she’s cataloguing evidence. The faint crease between his eyebrows that looks permanent from years of stress and responsibility, the exhaustion in his eyes- the kind that only comes from running a department that never sleeps.
She could almost feel it.
Not pain- not sharp or burning or anything that would make her gasp. It’s pressure. A slow, tightening pull beneath her sternum, like someone’s hooked a string around her ribs and pulled it taut. It’s familiar in the way a word sits at the tip of your tongue- almost there, almost pronounced.
If she’d had one more hour of sleep, if she’d looked at him twenty minutes earlier- before possible bomb threats and ransom demands swallowed her focus whole- if she’d met his eyes with just a fraction more clarity instead of running on caffeine and adrenaline she would have connected the dots. She would have seen past the navy scrubs and the title of Chief Attending, she would have double-checked the badge clipped to his chest, the one displaying his full name in clear black lettering. The one right in front of her goddamn face.
But she doesn’t.
Because she’s sleep-deprived and tense, her weight resting more on her right leg as she talks about explosives in the corner of a hospital corridor.
“So,” Robby says, arms folding across his chest in a defensive reflex he doesn’t even realize he’s making, “you want to tell me that what- there might be a bomb in here?”
“No, Doctor Robby.”
God, he hates that she sounds so calm. But God, does he love the way she says his name.
“I’m saying that one of the other two hospitals attacked by the same group is currently being threatened for ransom, and they’re claiming there’s a bomb.” Her voice is even. “Is there actually one? No. Whoever’s behind this isn’t brave enough for that.”
Just because she’s standing there with that steady gaze and that pretty face, just because her name is inked into his skin in dark, permanent script, just because she is his soulmate does not mean he isn’t absolutely panicking.
“And what about when they do get brave, huh?” His voice lifts despite himself, frustration and fear tangling together. “What happens then? What about the people working here? The patients? The nurses?” His breath catches before he can stop it. “My soulmates.”
The words slips out, raw and incomplete.
You have one fucking job, Robby. Don’t mess it up.
He understands now why Agent Hotchner had insisted he and Jack keep quiet, why he’d warned them that knowing could complicate everything. Because right now, standing in front of her, every instinct Robby has as a doctor, as a leader, as a soulmate, is screaming at him to get her out, to get Jack out, to get them both far away from any potential blast radius.
His mind is already mapping exits, stairwells, underground parking. He’s calculating how long it would take to clear the beds, how fast he could move critical patients without causing chaos.
“I understand your panic,” she says, and the words snap him back to her. "And your fear. Believe me, Doctor, I do.” There’s no mockery in her tone, no dismissal, just firm acknowledgment. “But profiling, understanding how the unsub- the attacker- thinks, that’s my job. I know what I’m telling you.”
“Are you that sure that he won’t-”
“Yes.”
The interruption is sharp but not cruel.
The confidence in her voice hits him harder than her words.
He’s been a doctor for decades. He’s delivered diagnoses in rooms so heavy with grief it felt like breathing underwater, he’s reassured parents while knowing there were no guarantees, he’s trained interns to speak in probabilities, in data, in outcomes that always have margins of error.
He has never- never- been able to offer one hundred percent certainty out loud.
And yet she stands here, in the middle of his emergency department, with absolute conviction threaded through her tone like steel.
“I’ve been with the BAU for twenty-three years,” she continues, eyes locked on his. “I’ve seen my fair share of everything.” The weight behind that statement is unspoken but undeniable. “I’m not saying you’re staying here. I’m saying we need to be discreet about how we get everyone out.”
Robby exhales slowly, the air leaving him like a deflating balloon. The situation settles heavier on his shoulders, pressing down until he feels the full gravity of it. This isn’t just about him or his soulmates, it’s about hundreds of lives- fragile ones, ones attached to ventilators and IV lines and beating hearts monitored by machines.
“I’m not trying to risk anyone’s life,” she says, her voice softening just slightly- not weak, just human. “I need you to help me clear this place without causing panic. Let Agent Jareau, Agent Morgan, and I de-escalate this before anyone gets caught in any possible crossfire.”
Crossfire. The word doesn’t belong in a hospital hallway, it doesn't belong in his department. Not like this.
He studies her again. Really studies her this time; the exhaustion around her eyes, the faint tension in her jaw, the way she holds herself like someone used to carrying responsibility whether she wants to or not.
The scream tears through the corridor like glass shattering.
It’s high and shrill and wrong. And before Yn could even begin telling Robby anything about evacuation routes or controlled exits, she’s already moving. Gun is in her hand in one smooth motion, body racing toward the sound as her voice cracks through the ED like a whip.
“Everybody down! On the ground!”
People drop, instinct winning over pride. Monitors beep wildly, carts rattle and several people start crying.
By the time Yn and Robby reach the end of the corridor, Derek and JJ are already there, guns raised, shoulders squared, forming a sharp, thin line of protection between the threat and the huddled staff.
“Emma,” Robby breathes.
The name barely leaves his mouth.
The young nurse is trembling in the grip of a man who looks barely older than she is. Late twenties, pale, sweat slicking his hair to his forehead. His eyes are wide, too wide, flicking between the three agents before locking onto Robby like he’s personally offended by his existence.
“Get down!” he screams. The gun presses harder into Emma’s temple. “Get down!”
Yn glances over her shoulder at Robby. Just once. A small nod.
Trust me.
Robby lowers himself to the ground with the others, jaw tight, eyes already scanning- where’s Jack, where’s Jack-
“Come on,” Morgan says, voice steady, soothing, the kind you’d use on a cornered animal. “Let her go.”
“Please, please, just let-” Emma sobs as the barrel digs harder into her temple.
“Shut up!”
“Tyler,” JJ says gently, stepping forward inch by inch. “Holding her hostage isn’t going to help you.”
His head snaps toward her. “How do you know my name?” His grip tightens on Emma’s shoulder; she winces, tears spilling freely now. “Tell me how you know my name!”
He’s rattled. They can all see it.
“Those earphones,” he barks suddenly, eyes locking onto the white device hidden beneath JJ’s hair. “Take them off! Take them off!”
JJ’s gaze flickers to Yn, asking for confirmation, for leadership. Yn nods once and JJ slowly removes the earpiece, placing it carefully on the ground.
“Get out!” Tyler screams at her and Morgan, waving the gun wildly. The movement sends another ripple of panic through the department- people huddling tighter, prayers whispered under breaths.
“We can’t-”
“Get out!” His voice cracks, manic and sharp. “I just want Yn Ln here.”
The way he says her name is wrong.
“I’ll only talk to Yn Ln.”
The air changes.
It was tense before, thick with fear, but now it’s something else entirely- something personal, something targeted.
Robby feels it like a punch to the gut and Jack, somewhere across the room, feels it too. Because when a man with a gun asks for your soulmate by name, you're not just panicking anymore, something different, something feral wakes up inside you.
“JJ. Derek. Leave.” Yn commands, never taking her eyes off Tyler.
They hesitate, of course they do, but they obey.
“I want you out too,” Tyler snaps at hospital security. “And lock that door!”
One by one, the three security guards filter out. The silence grows heavier with every step, it presses down on everyone left behind, thick and suffocating and full of unspoken terror.
“Slide your gun to the left,” Tyler orders, breath coming faster now, almost panting. The more he stares at her, the more unhinged he looks. “Empty it first.”
Yn doesn’t argue.
She ejects the magazine, racks the slide- letting the bullets clatter loudly against the tile- then she lowers the weapon slowly and slides it across the floor toward a cluster of nurses who scramble backward like it’s still live.
“Your other gun too.”
Her head tilts slightly.
Someone has done their research.
She crouches, fingers disappearing beneath her jeans at the side of her ankle, retrieving the secondary weapon and repeating the process with the same unhurried precision.
Tyler laughs under his breath, manic delight creeping into his features. “Fucking Yn Ln,” he mutters. “All quiet now. How the fuck did you catch my brother with that dull head of yours?”
Jack recognizes the silence on her face, it’s not submission, it’s calculation- she’s mapping distances, counting faces, tracking exits, measuring how far she can lunge without the nurse taking a bullet. He just hopes she’s factoring herself into the equation.
“I don’t want to hear your voice anyway,” Tyler rambles. His words start tumbling over each other, logic slipping. “Throw me the knives you keep on you, and the keys to the cuffs.”
Yn pauses only to scan the room again; who’s closest to the exits, who’s too frozen to move, who’s young, who could help if needed. She memorizes it all.
“Now!” Tyler shrieks, spit flying. “Or I will shoot her!”
Emma looks seconds from fainting. She is too innocent for this. Everyone in this room is too innocent for this.
Yn complies. She sets the knives down carefully alongside the cuff keys. Never breaking eye contact, then sliding them with her hand towards him- her composure makes him twitchier- and as she straightens, her shirt rides up slightly. A flash of white beneath dark clothes caught Tyler's attention.
“What is that?” Tyler snaps, gun swinging toward her fully now.
If Emma wasn't still in his grip, Yn would’ve already thrown the small hidden pocket knife from her back pocket into his forehead.
“Just a bandage,” she says evenly. “An injury I got thanks to your brother.”
His breathing turns erratic.
“No. No, no, no.” His thoughts are spiraling, racing, eating themselves alive. “Take off your shirt.”
“It’s just-”
“Take it the fuck off!”
“For fuck’s sake,” she mutters.
She reaches back, gripping the back of the neckline, pulling the fabric over her head in one smooth motion. The silence that follows is different, still afraid, still tight, but now also stunned.
Robby’s breath leaves him entirely. He has never understood why soulmate names land where they do. Why fate chooses ribs for one, arm for another. Why his name rests on Jack’s thigh while Jack's name rests on his back. Yn’s name is inked into his ribs while his name is written neatly across the center of her back, just beneath the strap of her bra. Clean, deliberate letters. And on the back of her shoulder rests another name. Jack's.
Two names permanent and now visible for everyone in the ED to see.
Tyler’s eyes flick over her almost naked front, searching for weapons. Finding none, he continous his instructions.
“Put the cuffs on yourself,” he demands, voice growing steadier with every ounce of control he’s gaining. “Arms in front. Secure one wrist. I’ll come over with her and she can lock the other.”
It plays out exactly like that. Yn retrieves the cuffs from the back of her jeans where it sat in place in its utility pouch, snaps one around her left wrist as Tyler drags Emma forward, forcing her to finish the job. The nurse’s hands shake violently, whispered apologies echoed through the quiet as she clicks the second cuff into place. Yn gives her a steady, reassuring smile in response.
Tyler shoves Emma away. She stumbles, skidding across the floor before Dana is there instantly, dragging her back into safety.
“Let’s go, Agent,” Tyler sneers as he shoves Yn around.
“Let’s go," The cold barrel presses into the center of Yn’s spine. "Don’t worry, I’ll find your soulmates. Apologize to them before I kill them.”
The room goes still. Yn wants to break his teeth against the tile, instead, she tilts her head back slightly. Her eyes find Jack's. Black shirt, cargo military pants, colored eyes blazing. One look, that’s all it takes for him to understand what she needs. Distraction.
“Hey-”
Jack stands; brave, stupid and perfect.
Tyler whips the gun toward him, and that’s all Yn needed.
She pivots sharply on her left foot, twisting hard. Her right foot plants onto the floor as she grabs Tyler’s wrist, forcing the barrel downward toward her own thigh as she drops her weight to the ground.
The gunshot explodes through the department, the sound deafening. Pain detonates up her leg, white-hot and blinding, but she doesn’t stop- she can't. Before Tyler can process what just happened, her elbow slams into his jaw. His grip falters and the gun clatters away from his grip. She drives her uninjured leg upward using her knee, knocking him off balance, then flips them, her weight crashing onto his back.
Her right knee digs into his spine while her left boot pins his wrist.
The handcuffs, still attached to her wrists, loop up and over his throat. The chain presses hard against his airway. He chokes, gurgles and thrashes.
“Unlock the doors!” she roars to whoever would listen and move.
Her fists brace beside his ears as she adjusts pressure- just enough to cut air, not enough to kill. Tyler tries sliding his neck onto the floor- a poor attempt in clawing at the chain- eyes bulging now, all the manic confidence gone. Reduced to desperate, ugly gasps.
The sound of JJ and Derek crashing through the double doors barely registered over the roar of blood in Jack's ears.
“It’s okay, we got him,” JJ was saying, voice steady, as Tyler’s body sagged, consciousness slipping like sand through open fingers.
But Jack wasn’t looking at Tyler, he wasn’t seeing the agents taking control, or the cuffs being unlocked, or the way the ER began to reassemble itself into motion after those suspended, suffocating seconds. He was looking at her.
Yn staggered back on instinct, as if the moment the threat shifted away from her, her body allowed itself to fail. Blood pooled around her legs- too much, too fast- soaking into floor tiles that had seen everything and yet, somehow, never this. Not like this. Not hers.
For a split second, everything went quiet in Jack's head- not the room, the room was deafening, monitors screaming, shoes squeaking, Dana shouting for a gurney and someone calling for a trauma bay- but inside him there was nothing. Just a hollow, cavernous silence where his training should have been.
He had spent his entire life running towards blood, towards injured soldiers with gunfire flying over his head. But now, when he needed to do so the most, he couldn’t move. Robby was at his side before he realized he had crossed the distance. Neither of them touched her at first, they just stood there, two physicians rooted to the floor, staring at the crimson blooming across her leg like it wasn’t real. Like if they didn’t acknowledge it, it might reverse itself.
This can’t be happening.
Robby’s mind tried to compartmentalize, his mind screaming at him- entry wound, possible exit wound, femoral artery?- but every clinical thought fractured the second it collided with the truth; that was her blood. The woman whose name was etched into his skin, bleeding out on the floor and he couldn't even twitch his fingers. He couldn’t hear his own breathing over the thunder of his heartbeat.
He should be moving. He knew he should. Years of surgical precision and muscle memory were screaming at him to take control, to bark orders, to apply pressure and secure a line and stabilize her before she stops breathing.
The thought paralyzed him.
“Excuse me.”
Melissa King and Trinity Santos physically pushed past their attendings, their shoulders knocking into Robby’s chest and Jack's shoulder. Jack barely felt it and Robby barely registered the sharp edge of Santos’ voice as she cut through fabric, scissors slicing through denim soaked dark with red.
Dana arrived with the gurney, wheels rattling against tile as if even it understood the stakes.
“On three- one, two-”
Hands moved. JJ, Mel, Santos, and Jack lifted her.
Jack’s hands are steady when they touch her, he doesn’t know how, he can feel the warmth of her blood soaking through his fingers, and he wished that he never moved. Meanwhile, Robby realized too late that he hadn’t helped. That his arms had stayed at his sides while others carried her. The guilt hit him like a physical blow.
Yn’s head lolled as they transferred her. Her eyes- those steady, unflinching eyes that had held his in an argument about a possible bomb threat barely minutes ago- were unfocused now. Glassy and fighting.
“She’s starting to lose consciousness,” Jesse says. The sentence cracked something open inside them.
“Her breathing’s rapid and shallow,” Santos adds quickly, eyes flicking up between Jack and Robby as if they're supposed to anchor this. “She’s going into hemorrhagic shock.”
Hemorrhagic shock.
Robby had said those words to families before. Calmly and apologetically, but now they felt like a death sentence.
“Hey!” JJ snapped, fury crackling through her tone as she rounded on the older attendings. “What the hell are you standing there for? Do something!”
Robby opened his mouth but nothing came out, he couldn’t. Because the second he tried to step forward, the image of her going still- truly still- flashed behind his eyes and his body betrayed him. What if his hands shook? What if he missed something? What if he was the reason she-
You had one job. Protect her. And you failed.
Jack’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Every instinct told him to push everyone aside and take over, to anchor himself in procedure and numbers and sutures and clamps, but his mind wasn’t sharp- it was frayed. He wasn’t thinking like a surgeon or even an army medic, he was thinking like a man watching the person tethered to his soul bleed out in front of him.
If I touch her and I lose her, I won’t survive it.
The thought wasn’t rational, he knew that, but it was raw and ugly and honest.
Santos finally looked JJ dead in the eye.
“They can’t.”
JJ frowned. “What?”
Dana didn’t hesitate. “They're her soulmates.”
The words shifted the air in the room, understanding dawned slowly across JJ’s face, Derek’s expression tightened, anger dissolving into something heavier.
From the outside, it made terrible, awful sense- of course they couldn’t move, of course two brilliant doctors would freeze when the person tethered to their soul was bleeding out in front of them.
"Trauma two is ready." Doctor Al-Hashimi's voice echoed through the chaos.
They started moving- fast- wheels rattling violently as Jesse steered toward trauma. Santos and Mel kept pressure on the wound, calling out vitals in clipped bursts to doctor Walsh and doctor Garcia.
Robby walked beside the gurney but didn’t touch it, Jack did. Not to treat or to intervene, just to stay connected. Every step felt like walking a tightrope between rationality and collapse. They know that they should scrub in. They know that they should lead, but they also know that right now, if they saw her chest stop rising under surgical lights, something inside them would fracture beyond repair.
And as the trauma doors swung open and swallowed her from their view, the ER staff watched the two men left standing in the aftermath. Not useless, not weak- just undone.
Two physicians who could save anyone- except, maybe, the one person they longed for the most.
(Jack Abbot x fem!FBI!reader x Michael Robinavitch)
Soulmate au
Note: this is set in season 2, but as of right now we are still waiting on episode 8 to air, so i have no idea how season 2 ends yet or how anything is gonna go after episode 7- i am just letting my imagination run wild here. With a criminal minds crossover (borrowing the BAU for this, hope you guys don't mind.) You don't have to know anything about criminal minds to read this. Thank you.
Warnings: no medical accuracy whatsoever. no idea how the fbi works. poly soulmate au. reader doesn't have a name but it's hinted that her name is a boy's name / not common for girls - no name is mentioned. 5-7 years age gap. swearing. jealous robby. jealous jack.
wc◇3.3k
Robby doesn’t remember when the name carved itself onto his ribs. There was no lightning strike, no dramatic swell of music, no sharp inhale where the world shifted on its axis. It must have happened quietly, the way most irreversible things do. One day his skin was only skin, and then one day it wasn’t.
Unlike Jack’s name, he remembers a time where Yn’s wasn’t there. He has proof of it, actually; sun-faded pictures from beach trips, his chest bare and golden under the light, smooth and untouched, a blank stretch of skin that would one day become a promise, a canvas waiting for her to paint it. Back then it was just his body, sunburnt and shared with only one person.
He didn’t even know it was a her.
There was always a possibility, of course, a quiet, almost embarrassing thought tucked into the back of his mind. But as he got older and met people with the same first name- people with the same first name, loud and ordinary and undeniably male- he folded that possibility up and shoved it out the nearest window. It was easier that way, easier to believe the universe was predictable and easier to focus on whatever felt urgent at the time- school, friends, scraped knees, growing pains. (He can’t even remember what had seemed so important back then. God, maybe old age really is catching up.)
But hey. At least he met one of his soulmates.
Jack, on the other hand, remembers everything.
He was five, small hands, untied shoelaces, knees permanently dusted in dirt, but he remembers it like a scene paused on a screen. The sun was too bright and the pavement too rough. The training wheels had just come off his bike, and then it happened.
He swears he felt it before he saw it. A strange warmth blooming along the inside of his forearm, like ink sinking into paper. He looked down just in time to watch the letters etch themselves into his skin, slow and deliberate, as if the universe itself had careful handwriting.
He crashed immediately after.
He can still remember the sting of gravel and the way his mother screamed his name, but not because he’d fallen, because she’d seen it too.
There’s a video somewhere in a box at his house, burried deep in the closet, with shaky footage. His father’s voice going sharp with disbelief. His mother crying and laughing at the same time and his five-year-old self holding up his arm like he’s just discovered fire.
Having two soulmates wasn’t unheard of, it wasn’t even rare, but he was the first in his family. The first to carry more than one name and that made it monumental. It was something that split his life into before and after.
He can recall that moment second by second , the heat, the letters, the fall. Because in a way, that’s when everything began.
Robby stared at the CEO of the hospital like the man had just announced that the sky was green.
Disbelief sat heavy in his chest. He looked around at his staff- the people who had survived night shifts, code blues, and whatever brand of chaos the Pitt decided to serve that week- and found their faces mirroring his own shock. His eyes caught Jack’s for half a second.
God. They are so fucked.
“Now,” the CEO continued, smoothing down his white patterned shirt as if that might smooth down the situation, “with the possibility of whoever it is that’s responsible for the attack wanting a ransom, we have contacted the FBI. They will be sending a unit here.”
FBI?
Holy shit.
The word moved through the department like a match dropped into a dry forest. The crackle of panic spreading through the wildfire. An FBI unit coming here wasn’t common. Not even with the mayhem the Pitt regularly unleashed. Not even on their worst days.
“Wait, why the FBI? Does Westbridge have FBI with them as well?”
That quieted the department real quick, it was the kind of silence that feels forced and fragile.
“Yes,” the man answered. “There might be someone with the terrorist organisation in the hospital.”
And just like that, the silence shattered.
Interns began muttering to each other in tight, anxious clusters. Residents and nurses turned, almost instinctively, toward Robby. Looking for answers. For reassurance. For leadership. And Robby? Robby was glaring at the CEO and at the woman he had met not even seven hours ago. Even if Dr. Al-Hashimi looked genuinely surprised, his glare didn’t waver.
“I’m pretty sure we said not to disclose any information until we get here.”
The voice cut through everything. It wasn’t loud, it didn’t need to be.
Tailored suit, badge clipped neatly onto the breast pocket of his blazer, tie perfectly in place, like he had stepped into a press conference instead of a crisis. His expression was controlled to the point of frightening, sharp eyes, faint frown, authority radiating off him in quiet, suffocating waves. He gestured to the younger man and woman following him, and they set their bags on the floor without a word.
“Hello, everyone,” he said, voice gruff and steady. His gaze swept across the room, cataloguing faces, reactions and fear. “My name is Aaron Hotchner. I am the Unit Chief of the BAU, also known as the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. Now that Mr. Norris has decided to let you all know why we’re here, you are safe. Special Agent Morgan and Special Agent Jareau are going to secure the department first and then search everyone-”
The murmurs began again. Louder this time. They were offended. And afraid.
“- Now, I need to speak to the head of this department.”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
Robby glanced at his fellow attending, irritation slipping into his voice before he could stop it. “Haven’t you done enough?”
“This is your last shift, Dr. Robby. I will be-”
“So this is your first shift?” Agent Hotchner asked, cutting in smoothly as he turned his attention to the shorter female doctor.
“Yes, but I am-”
“Well, Doctor…” He let the word trail off, waiting.
“Dr. Al-Hashimi,” she replied, spine straightening. “Chief attending of this trauma center, who will be taking over when Dr. Robinavitch leaves.”
Aaron looked at the older man standing in front of him. For a split second something flickered across his face, a barely there expression- recognition. And then it was gone, smoothed over by years of FBI training.
“Well, no offense, Dr. Al-Hashimi. I’m sure you’re a great doctor and a great chief attending. But I need someone who has been here long enough to know the ins and outs of this department.”
His smile was professional. Polite and final.
Then he turned.
“Now, Dr. Robinavitch-”
“Robby, please.”
A pause. A shift almost too small to notice.
“Dr. Robby,” he corrected evenly, “would you mind telling Agents Morgan and Jareau every entrance and exit here? Along with any unused rooms or places that staff might take breaks in.”
The weight of it settled on Robby’s shoulders, responsibility layered over frustration, layered over the creeping realization that this day was not going to end quietly.
“Of course.”
As Robby walked the younger agents through corridors and back stairwells, pointing out exits and supply closets and the door no one used because it jammed in winter, Aaron stayed behind.
He answered questions, as many as he could anyway. Carefully measured and professionally vague where he had to be. He tried, and only half succeeded, in calming down the room.
“Agent Garcia, our Technical Analyst, is currently at Westbridge with two other agents,” he said, voice stead and controlled. “She’ll be working from there to get your system back as soon as possible.”
The words technical analyst and system back did little to soothe the tension.
James Ogilvie stepped forward, jaw tight. “If whoever did this is here, isn’t what you’re saying potentially helping them?”
“You worry about your job, I'll worry about mine.” Aaron replied evenly, not raising his voice, not blinking and not even looking at the med student's direction.
And that was that. The conversation ended not with resolution, but with silence- a thick, suffocating silence that seemed to soak into the shiny white floors and hum beneath the fluorescent lights. Everyone stood there, absorbing the reality of it all. FBI. Search. Possible insider. It was all too much. Too fast.
Robby turned, exhaling slowly, and made his way back toward Jack just as the two agents he’d been guiding finished strapping on their Kevlar vests, the sound tearing through the quiet. They checked their firearms with practiced ease before splitting off in opposite directions.
“Look who the cat dragged in.”
Agent Morgan’s voice boomed through the department, warm and amused and entirely too loud for the fragile atmosphere. Every head turned toward the entrance.
She walked in like she belonged there. Like she owned the space she stepped into. Duffel bag slung over her shoulder, face focused yet unbothered.
“Agent YN LN,” Morgan continued with a grin, “couldn’t even take a twelve hours off, huh?”
The world stopped. For Robby and for Jack, their world stopped. YN LN. Their soulmate. YN LN is a woman. Female. Despite the name, despite the years of doubt and despite every boy Robby had met and every assumption he had forced himself to accept.
And all they could do was stare.
She offered a tired smile, saying something to Morgan that neither of them could hear over the sudden thunder of their own heartbeats. She moved forward and pulled Agent Jareau into a brief hug, easy and familiar.
They took in every detail like they were afraid she might disappear if they blinked. Black half-sleeve shirt, tucked neatly into dark blue jeans along with black combat boots, worn but polished. Her badge clipped to the waistband, swaying slightly with each step. She looked steady. She looked real. She was real. Right in front of them.
“Morgan.” Agent Hotchner’s voice cut in, sharp enough to rein him back. He fixed his subordinate with a look before his gaze shifted to her, immediately softening. “Sorry to call you in. I know you’re tired, but we need you here.”
“It’s fine,” she said.
And God. Her voice. Steady with confidence, yet soft and kind. Controlled in a way that suggested she’d seen worse than this and survived it.
“Rossi filled me up to speed on the phone.”
She moved toward the two duffel bags already placed on the floor, adding hers to the small pile before crouching down, efficient and focused. She pulled out a Kevlar vest and secured it around herself without hesitation, hands practiced and precise.
“Everyone,” Aaron announced, drawing the room’s attention once more, “this is Agent YN LN. She will be searching everyone here, making sure that there are no weapons- that includes patients as well.”
And Robby could only stand there, pulse roaring in his ears, staring at the name he had carried on his ribs for years finally given a face.
The room started moving again.
Charts were picked up. Gurneys rolled past. Nurses resumed arguing over the location of manual charts in hushed, tense voices. If you squinted- if you deliberately ignored the two figures moving methodically from person to person- you could almost pretend this was a normal day at the Pitt. A normal day without a system.
Screw that. This was a mess.
The bold yellow FBI letters stamped across the back of Kevlar stood out too much, too sharp and too foreign. Not like Jack’s vest, the one they were used to seeing, the one that blended into the controlled chaos of trauma medicine. These were different. Federal and intrusive.
“Don’t worry.”
Yn’s voice cut cleanly through the small cluster of Dana, Robby, Jack, Santos, and Whitaker. Calm and gentle, entirely at odds with the tension curling through the department.
“It’s just procedure. I know none of the doctors or nurses have a weapon, but I have to follow protocol.”
Her tone softened further as she directed it toward Mel, who stood rigid with wide eyes and restless hands. Mel’s gaze darted instinctively toward her senior attendings and her charge nurse, silently asking if this was really happening.
“It’s okay, hon'.” Dana offered a reassuring smile.
Robby and Jack nodded in sync.
Yn offered Mel the faintest smile before moving on, efficient but careful, respectful in the way she patted down the younger girl's scrubs, understanding how violating it could feel.
“Doctor Robby.”
Aaron’s voice sliced through again, the sharpness of it made the young blonde tense where she stood.
“Can I have a word in private?”
It was shaped like a question but it wasn’t. He was already moving before Robby could answer, posture straight, steps purposeful, not bothering to look back. The expectation of compliance hung in the air.
“What’s this about?”
Jack stepped forward without thinking. He didn’t like the way Agent Hotchner expected Robby to simply follow. Didn’t like the implication of secrecy, and whatever this was, whatever could possibly require privacy, would reach his ears in ten minutes anyway.
Jack Abbot didn’t scare easy. Not before the military, not after, and certainly not when it concerned his soulmate.
“It’s something that concerns me and Doctor Robby,” Aaron replied evenly. “So, Doctor, if you would please cooperate with Agent YLN, it would be appreciated.”
Robby had caught it then. The flicker- the brief look that had crossed Aaron’s face earlier when he heard his government last name. The name that sat on her skin. The one that connected them on paper and on body alike.
“It’s fine.” Robby turned to Jack, offering a steady look. He was a big guy. He could handle himself. And an FBI agent wasn’t what had his pulse racing right now. At least not this FBI agent.
“He should join.” The finality in Robby’s voice was enough to make Aaron pause.
“You’d want him to join,” Robby added.
The break room door shut with a muted click. Robby moved automatically toward the coffee machine, muscle memory guiding him as Jack leaned back against the door, arms crossed, stance protective.
“I’m going to assume your name is Jack Abbot.” Aaron’s gaze settled on the war veteran.
“Yeah,” Jack replied flatly. “Now wanna tell me what the hell is going on?”
The reply was directed at Aaron but the question was directed at Robby, who still had his back turned, focused on pouring coffee into a paper cup.
“He wants to talk about Yn,” Robby said calmly, handing one cup to Jack before finally turning toward the third man. “Black?”
“No, thank you.”
Aaron exhaled slowly, composure still firmly in place.
“I do,” he confirmed. “And I’m sorry, but as long as this is an active case and Yn is here as part of the BAU, she cannot know that you two are her soulmates.”
Silence.
“The hell-”
“She wears her soul ring,” Aaron continued evenly. “She can’t focus on protecting everyone else if she’s too busy thinking about you two.”
Soul rings, an unspoken language. Not government-mandated, not institutionalized. Just something people had done for centuries, a quiet declaration to the world. A simple band, no designs and no stones- gold or black- worn on the left hand, any finger, it didn’t matter which. It meant one thing; I’m waiting, I'm not settling down without you. And when you meet your soulmate, wedding bands stack on top of it. A visible timeline of devotion, patience and hope.
The image hits them both at once.
Yn- tactical, composed, FBI agent Yn Ln- wearing a plain band because she’s waiting. For them. Only them.
Heat crawls up Robby’s neck before he can stop it. His fingers instinctively curl around the black band hanging from the chain beneath his scrubs. And across from him, his soulmate wasn't doing much better. Jack’s ears turn an unmistakable shade of pink as he twists the black band already sitting on his finger. God. They feel like teenagers, hormonal and ridiculous. And yet, Aaron’s words don’t sit right with them.
“No.” Jack shakes his head firmly. “We want to let her know now.”
“I can’t allow that.” Aaron’s tone hardens, expression sharpening into something immovable. “You’d be putting everyone at risk. Yn is here as a favor. She took down a serial killer on her own less than ten hours ago and still showed up. If she ever knows that you’re within a ten-mile radius of this hospital, let alone inside it, whatever energy and focus she has left will fracture.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“That would put you at risk. It would put her at risk. And I can’t afford that.”
The firmness in his voice isn’t cold, it’s protective. And Robby and Jack both notice it, the familiarity in the way he says her name. Not possessive. Not intimate. But deeply accustomed, the kind that comes from years of partnership. The only thing that settles the storm inside is the black band wrapped around Aaron’s wedding finger, topped neatly with a silver wedding ring; he’s not waiting. He already found his, and right now he’s making sure Yn survives long enough to meet hers.
Back at the central station, Yn had the sudden, almost overwhelming urge to wrap Mel in blankets and sit her down with warm tea. She looked like deer in headlights, wide-eyed and frozen. Trying very hard to look calm while the world tilted just slightly off balance. Yn had already moved on to Santos, offering a quiet apology as she repeated the same procedure she’d done a dozen times in the last ten minutes.
“It’s okay,” Santos shrugged, straightening up yet acting like this was mildly inconvenient at worst. She looked bored, or maybe exhausted. Hard to tell in an ER. “Not my first time being patted down by a hot lady.”
The two new interns choked.
“Ohhh,” Yn chuckled, glancing up from where she was crouching down, checking Santos’s pant legs. “Careful, kid. I could be your mum.”
“Please,” Dana scoffed from beside them, handing a stack of files to a nurse who’d already been cleared. “You’re like, what - thirty? Thirty-five?”
Yn laughed. It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t restrained. It was full-bodied and warm and entirely too genuine for a department currently under FBI rules. The sound turned heads.
“Thank you,” she said, straightening up. “But I am way older than that.”
“Bullshit.”
“You’re good, Doctor,” Yn said lightly, stepping back and giving Santos a nod before turning toward Dana. “Try forty-five.”
“Shut up.” No one in the ER had ever seen Trinity Santos this stunned. “I wish I look like that when I’m old.”
Yn opened her mouth to reply, but before she could Robby’s voice carried across the floor, gruff and tired. Commanding in a way that didn’t need to shout to be heard.
“Okay, everyone, here’s how it’s going to work-”
Yn’s spine straightened automatically at the sound. She didn’t mean to tune him out. But she did. Because the moment his voice settled into explanation mode, calm, methodical, leading his people through crisis like he’d done a hundred times before, something in her chest shifted. She moved toward the left side of the station, focusing on unfamiliar faces. Doctors she didn’t recognize. A tech she hadn’t cleared yet.
“Excuse me,” she said softly, stepping in front of Jack.
God. That voice. Jack could fall asleep to it. Could let it pull him under into something warm and steady and entirely free of the nightmares that still woke him in the middle of his sleep.
“I’m gonna-”
“He’s clear.”
The interruption came sharp and immediate. Aaron Hotchner. Jack had never hated a man more in his life, not even the one who’d blown his leg off.
“Him and Doctor Robby are clear,” Hotchner added, already scanning the room for the next body to move toward.
Yn paused. Her gaze flickered between them.
“Um, sure.” She offered Jack a small, almost an apologetic smile before stepping back.
The distance felt wrong, too much yet not enough. She moved away, Jack watched her go and Robby kept talking. The department adjusted and the case continued.
oscar piastri x yn!singer x ex!jacob elordi - social media au | request — here
fc: sabrina carpenter
summary — oscar's crush on a certain singer is reveled when his mom makes it her mission to embarrass her son..
─── oscar masterlist !
note — (manips made by me) i've been so nba focused recently so sorry this took a while to put out !! another fic with sabrina as the face claim don't hate me... (prob some misspellings but we ignore) thank you for this request !!! likes, reblog's and comments are always appreciated ❤
Liked by oscarpiastri, clario and 4,748,362 others
yourinstagram ACL weekend 2 💛 such a special night.
you were so loud and rowdy Texas i miss you already but i do nottt miss that heat thank you goodbye, till next time Austin x
also maybe look out for some new music... 💋
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user1 such cute looks every time
user2 NEW MUSIC?!?!?
user3 what a fun performance!
user4 so in love with the fits, i need that dress..
user5 girl why is oscar piastri here? 😭
->user6 he's mentioned her music a handful of times!
->user7 i think he's a fan lol
user8 omggg the curly hair is so gorg
user9 if your going to do anything it's put on a show!
user10 need to go to a show SOOOON
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Liked by oscarpiastri, rachelzegler and 5,663,857 others
yourinstagram a little song called "nobody's son" that i've been working on for the past few weeks is coming out tonight so i hope you all enjoy xoxo <3
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user1 I LOVE IT!!
user2 we're leaving #HIM in the past queen
nicolepiastri Love the song! I have a good son! Liked by yourinstagram!
->oscarpiastri ????
->oscarpiastri MOM????
->user3 THIS IS CRAZYYY
->user4 Y/N LIKING HER COMMENT BRUHHH
->user5 oscar's gonna go into hiding after this
user6 this song is going to hit so hard live
chappellroan ate Liked by yourinstagram!
user7 im only here because of oscars moms comment but i love the song <3
user8 you done it again!!! it's so good
clario perfect as always Liked by yourinstagram!
user9 actually in love with this song LOVE ITTT
user10 this cover art and the song 10s!
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Liked by user1, user2 and 653,846 others
enews Formula One Driver Oscar Piastri talks about the comment his mom left on Y/n L/n's Instagram post.
"I felt a little bad, my mom didn't have ill intentions but I knew when I saw the comment that it would end up becoming a story and I didn't want to subject her (Y/n L/n) to that. I'll probably send a apology gift."
Click the link in our bio to read more.
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user1 his reaction to it being "MOM?????" is still so funny to me
yourinstagram omg nooo, i thought it was really sweet!! it made me laugh :)
->oscarpiastri 😅 So no gift necessary?
->yourinstagram we could work something out..
->user2 we are witnessing the start of something beautiful
->user3 oscar flirting on main? never thought i'd see the day
user4 y/n liking his moms comment and not saying anything was hilarious
user5 i really love when random celebs have these kinda crossovers
user6 one of them has to be playing 4d chess, this is such a random interaction
user7 "i'll probably send a apology gift" i hate him
user8 it's kinda sweet he didn't want to subject her to f1 fans 😭
user9 my niche f1 driver on enews what the hell :0
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Liked by user1, user2 and 733,846 others
enews Jacob Elordi talks going through a public break up with popstar Y/n L/n.
"Relationships aren't really supposed to be so public and if it doesn't work out it becomes bigger than you, there can be things said that were in the moment and now it's out in the public. The only thing you can do is move on, and I obviously have."
When asked for a comment Y/n L/n and her team declined.
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user1 he knows the only way he's going to get clicks is to mention y/n 🙃
user2 girl we really dont gaf
user3 "and i obviously have" but waited until she was seen with someone else to say something... right
->user4 he's such a loser
->user5 like it's so obvious why he chose now to say something
user6 anyways... everyone make sure to stream nobody's son
user7 bros doing the sad boy act as if we didn't hear nobodys son
user8 shes moved on dude no need to keep dragging it
user9 okay im over this "heartbroken" gimmick he keeps doing, we saw him holding a girls hand not even a month after they split
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Liked by oscarpiastri, rachelzegler and 6,748,362 others
yourinstagram a weekend filled with many happy tears <3
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user1 come on face card
user2 at least your a pretty crier ❤
valtteribottas Not pictured was y/n beating me at paddle ball
->yourinstagram didn't want to embarrass you guys 🙂
->oscarpiastri how kind of you ❤
->user3 "Peral is so kind ❤"
->user4 y/n is the only real athlete on that plane
user5 y/n and valtteri bottas on the same plane "what the hell, sure"
user6 IM SO HAPPY FOR U TWO!!
user7 the tears are so real mama
user8 we were looking forward to seeing u on tv diva 😔
user9 the balloons and decorations 🥺
user10 already such an iconic couple 🤭
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Liked by yourinstagram, lewishamilton and 3,672,856 others
oscarpiastri 🏝➡🏎
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user1 omg the kitty!!
->yourinstagram called him vroom and wanted to take him home so badd
->user2 so adorable 😭
user3 y/n looks like a princess wow
user4 i too would make y/n my entire personality
user5 bro got a girl and don't know how to act
nicolepiastri See! I have a son! Liked by oscarpiastri !
->yourinstagram and he's good!!
->user6 THANK YOU MAMA PIASTRI
->user7 the only reason we have this royal couple ty ❤
user8 u both look so hot 😩
user9 are you serious.... y/n looks so perfect
user10 so in love with this photo dump thank you king
user11 THE PEOPLES PRINCESS
user12 thank you nicole piastri for commenting on y/n's post 👏
SYN: you and lando have been soft launching eachother for what feels like ages. when you finally drop your next album, containing your biggest hint about your relationship yet, people finally start to catch on.
CONTENT: fem!reader, singer au, smau, soft launching, tate mcrae used! slightly mature but not really, very short fic, also includes a little mv teaser i made
RADIO CHECK: based on this req! I LOVED EDITING THE MV OMG even though tumblr fucked up the quality and made it offbeat ugh. editing is my second love after writing i swear. hope you guys enjoy <3
liked by alexandrasaintmleux, tatemcrae and others
ynln calm before the storm
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ynlnhq we're so ready!!
alexandrasaintmleux 😍😍😍
liked by creator
tatemcrae release it rn!!!
ynln in a little bit 🤭
user1 PRETTYY
user2 STORM AS IN RELEASING A NEW ALBUM??
user3 OMG FINALLYY NEW MUSIC
user4 so excited for whatever you drop next!
user5 WORLD TOUR WHEN??
user6 can we get a little hint on the theme of this possible album 🧐
ynln 🏎️
user7 OMG???
user8 FORMULA 1 PERCHANCE?!?!
liked by maxfewtrell, monster and others
lando fluro spotted on an island in the middle of nowhere
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monster Mr worldwide 🔥
user9 you're just that successful
liked by creator
user10 WHERE EVEN IS HE
user11 some island apparently?? holiday ig
user12 who's in that last pic?
user13 max or something
user14 does it really matter??
user15 probably just maxs gf pietra cause if he had a gf we'd know abt it by now
user16 is that not the same room as what @/ynln posted in her last post?!?!
user17 wait omg?…
user18 nah they can't be tg it doesn't even make sense + they posted ages apart, yn's already back in nyc
user19 oh yeah then they probably just stayed in the same hotel or something what a coincidence lol
liked by lando, haileybieber and others
ynln coming soon
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ynlnhq YESSSS
user20 I NEED THIS ALBUM RN
user21 WE NEED A PHOTOSHOOT WITH A CAR OMG
user22 f1 car to be exact
user23 OR A DRIVER??
user24 a lot of them DO follow her actually
user25 lando liked this post…
user26 SO EXCITED
user27 i am GETTING those tour tickets when they come out
user28 OBSESSEDDD
liked by ynln, mclaren and others
lando filming a lil something
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mclaren 🔥🔥🔥
user29 WHAT
user30 QUADRANT SHOOT??? WHATS GOING ON
user31 123 release em please
user32 TELL USS WHATS GOING ON
user33 yn's filming something too…
user34 omg imagine it was connected that'd be insane
user35 OMG
user36 he looks SO fine ugh
liked by lando, alexandrasaintmleux and others
ynln some of the recents (see you guys soon)
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alexandrasaintmleux can't wait!!!
liked by creator
user37 WHO IS THAT ON THE SECOND PIC
user38 SOFT LAUNCH?? OMG
user39 you have a bf we don't know abt yn 🫵🫵
user40 WHENS THE RELEASE DATEE I NEED TO KNOW NOW
user41 OBSESSED WITH THIS
user42 so freaking excited you don't get it
liked by ynln, lando and others
ynlnhq THE TRACKLIST (album out tomorrow)
01. prove it
02. situationship
03. good in theory
04. sports car
05. before you
06. softer now
07. say it louder
08. too much?
09. attention
10. replay
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ynln love!
liked by creator
user43 WE LOVE YOU YNNN
lando fire
liked by creator
ynln thanks!
user44 OMG?
user45 THIS LOOK SO FREAKING GOOD I'M OBSESSED
user46 10 WHOLE SONGS YESSS
user47 guys. lando interaction?? + the song sports car being FOURTH in the tracklist. what's lando's number?? FOUR. and they were BOTH shooting something car related a week ago.
user48 YOU'RE SO ONTO SOMETHING
user49 AND THEY WERE BOTH IN THE SAME HOTEL ROOM ON THAT ONE TRIP
user50 HAVE WE FINALLY FIGURED OUT WHO SHE'S DATING
user51 THIS IS MIND BLOWING OMG. DO YOU THINK HE'LL BE FEATURED SOMEWHERE??
user52 I HOPEEE
liked by lando, mclaren and others
ynln yeah you know what this is (sports car out now)
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lando featuring her boyfriend of a year and a half
ynln featuring lando norris
mclaren That's our driver!
liked by creator
madisonbeer OBSESSED.
liked by creator
user53 OH MY GOSH.
user54 LANDO?? WHAT THE FUCK.
user55 MY JAW IS ON THE FLOOR RN LANDO NORRIS AND YN LN HOLY SHIT
user56 thank you for feeding the next twenty generations i love you
user57 I KNEW THEY WERE TOGETHER HOLY
user58 this is so insane
user59 THIS MV WILL BE ON REPEATTT OMG. ITS SO PERFECT
user60 A YEAR AND A HALF?!?!?!
user61 EVERYTHING MAKES SM SENSE NOW
user62 does this mean we'll see yn in the paddock soon??
user63 he looks SO good
lando she looks better
ynln damn right
liked by ynln, carlossainz55 and others
lando go watch my beautiful girlfriends new mv (yeah that was me too)
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ynln luv youuu ❤️
lando i love you more baby
carlossainz55 the start of your acting career?
lando perhaps
user64 OH MY GOSHHH
user65 YALL WERE FREAKED OUTTT IN THAT MV
user66 PERFECT COUPLE TO EVER EXIST UGH
user67 BEST THING TO WAKE UP TO
user68 NEW FAV COUPLE
user69 soft launches were SO obvious now that i'm looking back on them
user70 i'm still in shock wtf
about the reading: art belongs in the museum, or so thought oscar. but when he realizes what kind of baddie he bagged really, he can’t keep his hands off of you. and might never ever will.
cards contained in this reading: oscar piastri x fem!reader, 2,7k words, reader is a tattooed and pierced baddie, oscar goes crazy for it, unprotected p in v
a/n: based on this request💋
if oscar were to describe you with words, he would probably fail them. all of them. he wouldn’t necessarily say about himself he was shy. he was reserved, yes. confident and really only talked if it was necessary. but the moment he had laid his eyes on you, all coherent thoughts vanished from his usually cool and calculated brain.
it was finally winter break and the well deserved rest period couldn’t arrive any sooner. the party had just began and oscar could already feel his feet grow cold. sarah, the girlfriend of jamie who got really close with oscar ever since he moved to monaco, seemed to know the mysterious beauty who stood by the bar and laughed so carelessly about whatever was said to you. by whoever… where was he again? oh yeah right… sarahs birthday party.
choosing to gather all his confidence and fight in him, oscar let sarah introduce you to him. and it went really well. if it weren’t for your shiny eyes under the golden chandeliers of the room. your perfect smile, your perfect smell. like a real goddess come to life. but he didn’t let himself fumble over his nervousness. he wouldn’t allow himself to.
and ever since he met you at that party, in that long sleeved, long black velvet dress that hugged your perfect body so effortlessly, he didn’t even wait for a better moment and asked you out on a first date. and you’re so glad you said yes.
it was only a year since your last long term relationship ended and still you had troubles adapting to the new rules of this dating game. carefully manufacturing your walls, you did create the flawless protection for your heart and sanity. however oscar didn’t take long to break them down, brick by brick, peeling the layers off with an ease that almost scared you. but he was so easy to talk to. so easy to trust that you could have sworn it didn’t take him a lot of strive to get to the exact point where he is now.
and sarah could barely believe it when she heard the news from jamie who heard them from oscar first hand. you invited oscar over to your place. yep, that was no fake news or a bad joke. plus the idea came from you personally. every one of your closest friends knew it took a lot for you to let someone into your safe space. you didn’t like to let just anyone in. let alone invite them for home made dinner.
said evening couldn’t arrive sooner and oscar was finally chill about everything that happened between you two. yes, you kissed on the first date already. that was one of his ground rules, yet when he gave you his jacket over the thin material of your long sleeved blouse, he couldn’t keep himself from pulling you in by it and showing you exactly how much he is thinking about you. all the time, wanting to hear more of you, see more of you. just you.
the cool winter breeze ruffled oscars messy light brown hair after he got out of his car and walks up to your apartment complex. with a bouquet of red roses and his perfect polite cat smile, he ringed your doorbell and waited like the perfect gentleman.
the bouquet earned him two kisses on the cheek and he got nervous slowly. oscar had the feeling something was going to be different tonight. but he pushed it quickly aside and let you two enjoy the time together. so what if things went further? he could handle it just fine… wouldn’t be his first time after all.
your apartment is amazing, decorated tastefully and so much like you. cream colored furniture, art on walls and green plants around that gave him the perfect homey feeling. dinner is more than amazing and oscar makes sure he tells you more than enough how much he loves your cooking.
your sofa is big and cozy at the end of the evening when you two settle with a glass of white wine each, and a good conversation topic. the wine makes your head light and if you didn’t think oscar was a fine gentleman you sure did now. a little and you slowly lean in. your cheeks rosy, your smile uninhibited and there is a certain mischief as you reach out and draw a hand through his soft locks.
oscar hums, a sound deep in his throat. he leans into your touch effortlessly, fingertips dragging down to caress and tickle the back of his neck and he almost grows a puddle right there. “mhm... feels good…“ he mutters without thinking twice.
a smirk spreads on your face in amusement and your hand moves to cup his cheek. “you like?“ you ask, voice soothing like hot liquid, making the goosebumps erupt on his skin so easily. he’s so pliant in this moment, brown eyes big and waiting for your next move. he would do whatever you told him right about now. “very much…“ oscar answers, his hands reaching out for your waist.
leaning in it doesn’t take you long to brush your lips against his in a passionate kiss. it’s gentle, slow and reverent first, but turns into something so much more in the passing seconds. oscar pulls you on his lap, the soft fabric of your loose pants slide up just a little, and his hands find their way so naturally under your top. it’s dizzying how good you kiss, and he knows this can’t just possibly stay a make out session. your approval doesn’t need to be asked when he feels your body mold into his with every kiss, every grind, every touch.
“wait…“ the australian grunts softly, pushing you away mere inches reluctantly. you halt immediately, wondering if you went to fast. if he regretted it, if he doesn’t want you at all. thoughts running thousand miles per hour and you draw back. “what’s it? what’s wrong…?“
you search his face but find that he is not opposed. not weirded out or regretting. a small smile spreads on his face, luring the dimples out of their hiding. “nothings wrong, i just don’t want to rush,“ oscar mutters, brushing hair out of your face and settling on your jaw. you feel your stomach relax and so does your body at his admission, your expression matching his.
but you quickly realise there is something else hiding in his eyes. something he doesn’t want to admit yet. your fingertips trace the buttons of his black shirt, down slowly and feeling the warm skin under your touch. “but…? you want me to go slow on you, tiger?“
oscar chuckles at your teasing. he knows he is not that slick and he doesn’t want to hide his thoughts from you. he figured you wouldn’t judge him for anything ever. “i just want to make sure you’re comfortable,“ he shrugs, but the patterns you’re drawing on his chest makes it hard to think. “i’m not going to lie… i’m curious what’s under there.“
that same melodic giggle oscar fell in love with that very day echoes in the dimly lit living room and hits his ears with an silky caress. it’s so addicting he wants to hear more of the sweet sounds you can make. “you are? how come?“ you question, knowing you too, haven’t been too slick as well.
“i always see you in long clothing.“ he admits, eyes roaming your clad body. “it’s winter,“ you counter quickly.
oscar chuckles, hands skimming your body carefully, palms against your sids. eyes dragging slowly up to meet with yours. there is eagerness there. a glow of desire and want. he wants you. “it’s not just winter,“ a reason, a thought. and he is going to be honest again.
he cups the back of your neck, pulling you closer to him. nostrils filled with the delicious scent of that vanilla passionfruit perfume he is obsessed with. lips finding your neck, he places open mouthed kisses right there that make you shiver immediately. “it’s curiosity too…“ his voice is muffled by your skin, his brain invaded by you and his dick hardens for you slowly. it’s mouthwatering and you can already feel it underneath you through the thin fabric of your pants.
your breathing stocks for a minute, and you tilt your head to the side. “is it now?“ you tease, but decide in the next moment to give him exactly what he wants. “alright, alright…“
you give in, standing up slowly. the golden and red led lights illuminate your body as you start to peel off layer by layer. you start with your pants, dropping them to the floor and stepping out. manicured hands grabbing the hem of your top to pull it over your head, the silver necklaces clinking softly against each other.
and if that isn’t already enough you drop the lace bralette to the piles of clothing too and make a small pose for him. “is this what you wanted to see?“
oscar swears his mouth goes dry. eyes widening and staring right at… everything. because this… this is everything. your body is covered in tattoos. smaller ones, bigger ones. artistic intricacies that make you look like a painting right from the louvre. his breath catches in his throat as each piece of clothing falls away slowly, leaving him speechless to say at least.
but fuck it if he doesn’t noticed your pierced nipples. both of them, the pink gemstones of the accessory glinting back at him mischievously. he swallows hard, trying to find words but he yet again sits there like a dumb idiot. “damn this is… that is… i mean you look…“ idiot. so much about he can handle whatever.
your hands slide up your upper body, passing the mandala between your boobs and cupping them to make them look fuller for his gaze. “too much?“ you grin, not intending to cover up anything any time soon. you know you're hot, you worked on yourself and on your confidence. walking up to him you settle on his lap, and you're afraid he starts drooling soon if he doesn’t start to use his brain now.
“fuck no….“ he shakes his head, palms finding your tattooed skin. eyes glued to you art, up to the gems I your nipples. oscar leans in, leaving wet and open mouthed kisses along your collarbone, thumb teasing your nipples. your eyes flutter closed, leaning into his touch a content sound leaves your lips. “it’s perfect…“
and his confidence is soo boosted. hearing your body react to him makes him harder, if thats even possible. grabbing your ass cheeks, oscar pulls you right on his crotch, leaving love bites along your skin and down to your right nipple. you got him so rilled up by the simple looks of you, he grows more hungry the more he touches you. tongue circling the pink peak before sucking it into his mouth and fuck it if he is reverent.
taking his time and playing you so fucking perfectly it’s mouthwatering. “mhm... oscar…“ it leaves your lips. soft, pleading, horny. his touch wanders down between your legs, tracing the black lace up and down. “you got a piercing here too, pretty girl?“
a heartbeat, then you smirk. you kiss his earlobe, biting gently and you can swear a groan rumbles against your chest. "why don’t you find out?"
he doesn’t need to be told twice, sliding under the fabric he finds you already so soaked and turned on, two fingers teasing up your slit right to your… “goddamn it…“ he mutters, gaze hooded when he finds yours. “did that hurt?“
you gasp when two fingers slide into you, thumb circling your clit while he massages your sweet spot with a simple curl of his fingers. “like hell..“ you answer dazed, the pleasure already too much. your skin too hot because kissing him was already foreplay enough.
oscar grabs under your thighs and lays you on your sofa. kissing down your neck, licking each nipple while sliding down the flimsy fabric of your panties and tossing them aside. the tattoos are each worship by a kiss, tongue licking over your belly piercing before tracing down to the clit piercing then stopping. you feel physically on a high and he loves to keep you on the edge for now. drawing back, oscar unbuttons his shirt, making it hit the floor with a soft sound before taking both your legs in his hand, opening you up.
“so beautiful…“ he mutters fervently, watching you laid out like an offering. like a buffet, waiting to be devoured. chest heaving with small pants and he knows you're turned on just as much as he is. “let me see the back…“ he grins. he fucking grins. and it doesn’t take much for you to reply the same expression at his eagerness.
you turn around, pushing your ass back against his hardening crotch that makes his breath hitch audibly. grabbing onto those perfect ass cheeks, he watches the huge astonishing dragon stretch across your back. complimented by red flowers and small quotes, it’s the prettiest and most breathtaking he has ever seen. but he can swear he has seen this before. “is this…“
“one of my drawings? yes it is…“ you answer, not expecting the slap that comes down your ass harshly. it makes you moan in surprise, pushing back against him even more so he finally gets the hint and fucks you like he means it. “fuck... you’re prefect…“
you lean back into him when he kisses your shoulder blades, discarding his pants and boxers. he realises that you get impatient. pushing against him, squirming your hips and wiggling that ass in his face. “easy there, pretty girl…“ he murmurs against the shell of your ear, fingers sliding between your legs to tease your pierced clit and parting your lower lips with his fingers. “let me worship this body properly.“
you whine in protest, but let him and finally feel the stretch of his thick head when he pushes inside you. arms hugging the couch cushions, your mouth hangs open once he pushes inside you fully. you feel so fucking full and it’s almost embarrassing at how easily he slides in and out. slow but so deep you feel him everywhere.
“fuck… feels good… so good…“ you manage to pant out. manage to form words at how good he fucks you. “mhm... worshipping you feels even better… fuck you’re so tight, baby…“ oscar praises.
your breathy sounds turn into needy whiny moans, bouncing around the room and make him go just a little faster. just a little deeper. hands grabbing onto you greedily, leaving marks you don’t mind. not one bit. you hate nonchalants. especially in bed. and oscar seems to just know what you like without you even needing to say a word. but he still seems to hold back.
“fuck oscar… go harder… please…“ you whimper, bouncing back against him with a yearning that makes his brain almost short circuit. “you want it harder, baby?“ he growls, hand burying in your hair and pulling just enough to make your back arch, earning an immediate reaction.
“yes, yes, yes… fuck…“ you mewl, clenching around him like you want to keep him there forever. oscars expert fingers find your clit and it’s your undoing. you come within minutes. long, heavy moans that are his undoing and he quickly follows you over the edge. he doesn’t bother pulling out, pushing right back into you and it hints to something so raw and possessive, you love every second of it.
panting heavily, oscar lets himself down on you slowly, kissing your shoulder and neck. “too much?“ he asks, breathing heavy and wrapping his arms around you instantly. fuck it, even your sweat smells perfect. your fingers intertwine and he brings it to press a kiss to your wrist. “just perfect,“ you echo his words right back at him, feeling his cock soften inside you.
“you know… it’s a crime you kept this from me,“ oscar chuckles a few minutes later, rolling to the side to look at your beautiful face. “well,“ you smile, sitting up and moving immediately to straddle his hips. hand wrapping around his cock he actually thinks he is in heaven. a beautiful tattooed, pierced girl who is going to be the horny death of him? an absolute yes. “it’s always the quiet once who end up being the freakiest…“
with those words said, he couldn’t even believe how time passed that night. moving from the couch to the bed, later to the shower and back to the bed. oscar couldn’t get enough of you. and you couldn’t get enough of him. it was safe to say he bagged himself a baddie.
Oscar’s neighbour is a terrible driver. The baby pink Porsche has never been parked in a straight line since Oscar moved in; it’s always crooked. To be fair, the parking garage of the building is pretty packed; everyone in Monaco owns a car or two so it’s always a tight fit. Oscar can see why said neighbour – let’s call them Pink Porsche – kind of gives up halfway and abandons the car in whatever position they deem fit.
Today, though, Oscar has the misfortune of witnessing this parking attempt firsthand, and to make it doubly unfortunate, he’s kind of in a rush. Pink Porsche is attempting to parallel park and, in doing so, is blocking the exit. They've been doing the same backwards and forwards movement to fit into the space and frankly, it’s not working. Oscar likes to think he’s a patient guy but he’s starting to get dizzy from all the movement and the anxiety of being late for his meeting is starting to eat at him.
Isabella is having a no-good, horrible time. Her morning started off great; she went for Pilates, bought a new accent pillow, and picked up a bagel—with smoked salmon and cream cheese—and best of all, all of these stops had valet parking. A perfect morning. Until she got to the garage… and had to park.
Usually it wasn’t this much of a headache; Mark, the security guy, usually had a little corner space reserved for her, but it turns out that spot belonged to a resident, who finally remembered they had a flat in Moncao. This was the beginning of her nightmare.
Isabella was what you would call a baby driver; in her 2 years of living in the building, she had spent most of it without a car. Driving was and still is a terrifying ordeal, and she had made it a point to never do it; however, fate, or to be more precise, her Pinterest board, had other plans. Now she’s the proud owner of this really adorable pink Porsche, which comes along with two very difficult problems.
The first problem: every resident is allotted a parking space; when she first moved in, she waived that allotment, which in hindsight was a terrible idea. Now she's been assigned this really shitty spot where the only way she can fit in is by parallel parking. She had managed to avoid parking in there with that other resident absent; now she has no choice.
This leads to problem number two: she can't park. Well… She can park, in the sense that she can stop the car in a place, but will it be precise…?
No.
Back to her no-good, horrible time, Isabella has been battling her steering wheel for the past 10 minutes when she hears a knock on her window. A little taken aback, she rolls down the glass and is met with the most unimpressed expression she has ever seen.
“Sorry if this comes off as rude, but let me park it for you.” Mr Unimpressed says.
Isabella, fed up with it all, doesnt hesitate to fling open the door and makes way for the cute floppy-haired stranger. She decided she would very much like to be a damsel in distress, saved by her maybe Australian knight, judging from the accent.
“She’s all yours.”
Isabella watches on with envy as he expertly manoeuvres his way into the gap, which, in Isabella’s humble opinion, is unrealistic as a parking space.
Oscar opens the car door with a little more force than necessary and almost stomps over to her; he’s about to deliver a pointed remark about wasting people’s time, and then, he gets a good look at her face.
She’s staring up at him with big almond-shaped eyes, and Oscar feels all the annoyance bleed out of him. 'Pretty' is the first thought that comes to mind. She looks deflated as he hands over the keys.
‘Soft’, he notes, about her hands. Her nails are painted this pretty pink colour that matches the car—with white tips.
Isabella starts to apologise. “I’m so sorry about this. You’re probably in a hurry. I only started driving last year and—”
“What’s your name?” Oscar blurts out before he can stop himself and wishes he could throw himself off a building.
She replies apprehensively, “Oh… uh, Isabella, you?”
‘Isabella’, he thinks, ‘that’s a pretty name”. He can distantly hear himself say, “Piastri. Oscar Piastri.”
“Thank you, Mr Piastri,” she says softly, this time with a little more confidence. He doesn’t seem like he’s about to blow up at her anymore.
Oscar nods woodenly and finally remembers he has someplace to be. He tears his eyes away from her face and makes his way to his car. As he drives off, he can't help but watch her in the rearview mirror.
There’s a comfortable silence in the elevator; it’s just the two of them. ‘Christ!’ He thinks, 'She smells incredible.' Oscar wants to bury his nose at the base of her neck. He can’t really explain what her scent is; if he had to guess, he’d say it’s like she just stepped out of the shower, and she used a really fancy shower gel. Oscar doesn't think anyone coming back from a workout has any right to smell that good. Her dark hair is curling up at the nape of her neck from the sweat and he's desperately trying to stop himself from staring at it.
He can’t stop thinking about her, which is frankly alarming, but he can’t help it. The problem is Oscar hasn’t been the greatest conversationalist around her; he’s always kind of in a rush when he parks her car, usually leaving when she’s coming in. She probably thinks he hates her; her small talk is met with monosyllabic responses of “yes” “ no” and “hmmm”.
They have this unspoken agreement where if they happen to be in the parking garage at the same time, Isabella wordlessly slides out of her car, Oscar parks it and then goes about his business, and that's about the extent of their relationship. Oscar would like to change that, so……. he musters up the courage and asks.
“Are you free tomorrow?”
Isabella looks up from her idle scrolling at the question, eyes a little wide.
“Huh?” She thinks she’s misheard.
“uh… There’s this, uh, parking lot that is usually pretty empty. I could help you practice your parking if you wa-
“Oh, yes, please! I’d love that! I’m pretty shameless but even I’m starting to get embarrassed about using you as my personal valet.”
Isabella is relieved; Monaco isn't exactly the best place to get experience with the parking – there’s valet parking everywhere – and her parking garage is filled with super expensive cars she’d rather not scratch in her efforts to try out her skills.
Oscar huffs out a surprised laugh at that; he doesn't mind being her valet. In fact, he doesn't mind being her anything. If this wasn't a part of his scheme to spend more time with her, he would gladly take this job off her hands.
Oscar, always one to take advantage when there’s a gap, asks, “What’s your number? So we can, uh, iron out the details for tomorrow, of course.”
She rattles off her number and gets off at her floor; before the doors close, she yells out.
“Thanks again, Mr Piastri.”
Isabella lets her apartment door shut behind her and lazily toes off her trainers; she’s working on the second one when her phone pings with a text notification.
Mr Piastri : See you tomorrow :) . P.S. You know you can call me Oscar, right?
Oscar’s really nice and he’s really funny; at least that’s what Isabella thinks. He’s been patiently risking his life in her passenger seat for almost a month. He’s also super hot. Isabella isn’t blind; he’s all broad-shouldered and soft-spoken with this mole on his neck that is really, really distracting; it’s the reason there’s a little dent in the front of the Porsche – Oscar was nice enough to pay for repairs.
Ogling him aside, they get along really well. They just click. They talk about anything and everything and it never gets boring. Even the silence they have is always comfortable; it’s just nice to exist in each other’s presence.
When Isabella finds out he’s a Formula One driver, she gasps in delight with this twinkle in her eye. She’d been telling all her friends about this guy that’s like an Olympic-level parker. There’s no way someone should be this good at driving if they aren’t being paid for it.
She's beaming at him; it makes Oscar want to kiss her. A lot of things she does make Oscar want to kiss her. Her hair is always escaping her bun, little curly pieces framing her face. He resists the urge to curl a strand around his finger.
Truthfully, these lessons haven’t been necessary since week two. Isabella is a fast learner and Oscar – not to brag about himself – is a great teacher. Isabella is parked – correctly – and they're both watching the sunset. Isabella is telling this story about some party and realises that Oscar has gone quiet. She turns to give him a questioning glance and finds him staring at her.
“What?” she asks, a little nervous from how intense the stare is.
He slowly places his hand on her cheek, as if he’s giving her time to stop him or tell him to back off. He strokes his thumb along the skin, and a blush grows where his thumb travels. She leans into the touch. His eyes are determined; he takes a deep breath as if he’s bracing for impact and asks,
“Can I kiss you?”
Isabella doesn't answer; instead, she bridges the rest of the gap and kisses him. He moves his grip to the back of her neck so he can pull her closer. It’s incredible. Her lips are so plush and as the kiss deepens, she lets out a sigh that makes him tighten his grip a little. When she kitten-licks the mole on his neck, Oscar has to hold back a groan, and, with great restraint, pulls himself away. He’d rather not have their first time in the back seat of her Porsche. He wants to take his time with her.
They end up staring at each other with shy smiles on their faces.
'I have a second question,' he asks with his hand tangled up in hers.
She looks amused and quirks a brow.
He draws her closer and asks, “Will you be my girlfriend?”
Isabella lets out a delighted laugh and says, “Of course, I will. I don't give out my keys to just anybody."